THE  1ND  IN 
THE  ROSEBUSH 


LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


a,  for  a  booke  and  a  shady  nooke, 
Eyther  in  doore  or  out, 
With  the  greene  leaves  whispering  overhead, 
Or  the  streete  cryes  all  about;  * 

Where  I  maie  reade  all  at  my  ease         J>< 

Both  of  the  newe  and  olde, 
For  a  jollie  goode  booke  whereon  to  looke 
Is  better  to  me  than  golde! 


THE    WIND    IN    THE    ROSE-BUSH 


What  makes  that  rose-bush  blow  so  when  there 
isn't  any  wind  ? ' " 


The  Wind  in 
the  Rose-Bush 

And  Other  Stories  of  the 
Supernatural 


BY 

MARY     E.    WILKIN  S 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  PETER   NEWELL 


NEW  YORK 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE   &   COMPANY 

1903 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Copyright,   1902,  1903,  by 
John  Wanamaker 

Copyright,  1903,  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

Published   March,  1903 


t>s  iKanfmttart 
gorfe,  ®.  ». 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush         .  j      .         .         .  3 

The  Shadows  on  the  Wall   .         .         .'        ,         „  4! 

Luella  Miller       .         .         .         .         .         .         .  75 

The  Southwest  Chamber     .....  107 

The  Vacant  Lot           .         .         .         .         .         .  ify 

The  Lost  Ghost           .         .         .         .         .  201 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


'  What  makes  that  rose-bush  blow  so  when  there 

isn't  any  wind  ?  ' '  ...      Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

'  'What   is   that  ? '    he   demanded    in   a   strange 

voice"      .         .         .         .         .       -.         .       62 

"  '  Oh,  my  God,'  gasped  Mrs.  Brigham,  '  there 

are — there  are  two  shadows  ' '  .  72 

1  'All  but  Luella  shone  white  in  the  moonlight '  "     102 

"  She  saw  instead  of  her  own  face  in  the  glass, 

the  face  of  her  dead  Aunt  Harriet  I  "         .     162 

"  The  Blue  Leopard  seemed  to  crouch  and  spring 

with  life "         .         .         .         .         .         .     170 

"  A  black-draped  long  arm  was  seen  to  rise  and 

make  a  motion "        .         .         .         .         .     194 

"  Then  I  saw  a  little  white  face  with  eyes  so 
scared  and  wistful  that  they  seemed  as  if 
they  might  eat  a  hole  in  anybody's  heart  "  214 


THE   WIND    IN   THE   ROSE-BUSH 


THE   WIND   IN   THE    ROSE-BUSH 

FRD  VILLAGE  has  no  railroad  station, 
being  on  the  other  side   of  the  river 
from  Porter's  Falls,  and  accessible  only 
by  the  ford  which  gives  it  its  name,  and  a 
ferry  line. 

The  ferry-boat  was  waiting  when  Rebecca 
Flint  got  off  the  train  with  her  bag  and  lunch 
basket.  When  she  and  her  small  trunk 
were  safely  embarked  she  sat  stiff  and 
straight  and  calm  in  the  ferry-boat  as  it 
shot  swiftly  and  smoothly  across  stream. 
There  was  a  horse  attached  to  a  light  country 
wagon  on  board,  and  he  pawed  the  deck 
uneasily.  His  owner  stood  near,  with  a 
wary  eye  upon  him,  although  he  was  chew 
ing,  with  as  dully  reflective  an  expression 
as  a  cow.  Beside  Rebecca  sat  a  woman  of 
about  her  own  age,  who  kept  looking  at  her 
with  furtive  curiosity;  her  husband,  short 
and  stout  and  saturnine,  stood  near  her. 
Rebecca  paid  no  attention  to  either  of  them. 
3 


4  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

She  was  tall  and  spare  and  pale,  the  type 
of  a  spinster,  yet  with  rudimentary  lines 
and  expressions  of  matronhood.  She  all 
unconsciously  held  her  shawl,  rolled  up  in  a 
canvas  bag,  on  her  left  hip,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  child.  She  wore  a  settled  frown  of  dissent 
at  life,  but  it  was  the  frown  of  a  mother  who 
regarded  life  as  a  froward  child,  rather  than 
as  an  overwhelming  fate. 

The  other  woman  continued  staring  at  her ; 
she  was  mildly  stupid,  except  for  an  over 
developed  curiosity  which  made  her  at  times 
sharp  beyond  belief.  Her  eyes  glittered, 
red  spots  came  on  her  flaccid  cheeks;  she 
kept  opening  her  mouth  to  speak,  making 
little  abortive  motions.  Finally  she  could 
endure  it  no  longer;  she  nudged  Rebecca 
boldly. 

11 A  pleasant  day,"  said  she. 

Rebecca  looked  at  her  and  nodded  coldly. 

"Yes,  very,"  she  assented. 

"Have  you  come  far?" 

"I  have  come  from  Michigan." 

"Oh  !"  said  the  woman,  with  awe.  "It's 
a  long  way, "  she  remarked  presently. 

"Yes,  it  is, "  replied  Rebecca,  conclusively. 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  5 

Still  the  other  woman  was  not  daunted; 
there  was  something  which  she  determined 
to  know,  possibly  roused  thereto  by  a  vague 
sense  of  incongruity  in  the  other's  appear 
ance.  "  It's  a  long  ways  to  come  and  leave 
a  family, "  she  remarked  with  painful  slyness. 

"  I  ain't  got  any  family  to  leave, "  returned 
Rebecca  shortly. 

"Then  you  ain't " 

"No,  I  ain't." 

"  Oh  !"  said  the  woman. 

Rebecca  looked  straight  ahead  at  the  race 
of  the  river. 

It  was  a  long  ferry.  Finally  Rebecca 
herself  waxed  unexpectedly  loquacious.  She 
turned  to  the  other  woman  and  inquired  if 
she  knew  John  Dent's  widow  who  lived  in 
Ford  Village.  "Her  husband  died  about 
three  years  ago, "  said  she,  by  way  of  detail. 

The  woman  started  violently.  She  turned 
pale,  then  she  flushed;  she  cast  a  strange 
glance  at  her  husband,  who  was  regarding 
both  women  with  a  sort  of  stolid  keenness. 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  do,"  faltered  the  woman 
finally. 

"Well,  his  first  wife  was  my  sister,"  said 


6  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Rebecca  with  the  air  of  one  imparting  im 
portant  intelligence. 

"Was  she?"  responded  the  other  woman 
feebly.  She  glanced  at  her  husband  with  an 
expression  of  doubt  and  terror,  and  he  shook 
his  head  forbiddingly. 

"I'm  going  to  see  her,  and  take  my  niece 
Agnes  home  with  me, "  said  Rebecca. 

Then  the  woman  gave  such  a  violent  start 
that  she  noticed  it. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"Nothin',  I  guess,"  replied  the  woman, 
with  eyes  on  her  husband,  who  was  slowly 
shaking  his  head,  like  a  Chinese  toy. 

"Is  my  niece  sick?"  asked  Rebecca  with 
quick  suspicion. 

"No,  she  ain't  sick,"  replied  the  woman 
with  alacrity,  then  she  caught  her  breath 
with  a  gasp. 

"When  did  you  see  her?" 

"  Let  me  see ;  I  ain't  seen  her  for  some  little 
time, "  replied  the  woman.  Then  she  caught 
her  breath  again. 

"  She  ought  to  have  grown  up  real  pretty, 
if  she  takes  after  my  sister.  She  was  a  real 
pretty  woman, "  Rebecca  said  wistfully. 


The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush  7 

"Yes,  I  guess  she  did  grow  up  pretty," 
repled  the  woman  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"What  kind  of  a  woman  is  the  second 
wife?" 

The  woman  glanced  at  her  husband's 
warning  face.  She  continued  to  gaze  at 
him  while  she  replied  in  a  choking  voice  to 
Rebecca : 

"I — guess  she's  a  nice  woman,"  she 
replied.  "I — don't  know,  I — guess  so.  I 
— don't  see  much  of  her." 

' '  I  felt  kind  of  hurt  that  John  married 
again  so  quick,"  said  Rebecca;  "but  I 
suppose  he  wanted  his  house  kept,  and 
Agnes  wanted  care.  I  wasn't  so  situated 
that  I  could  take  her  when  her  mother  died. 
I  had  my  own  mother  to  care  for,  and  I  was 
school-teaching.  Now  mother  has  gone, 
and  my  uncle  died  six  months  ago  and  left 
me  quite  a  little  property,  and  I've  given  up 
my  school,  and  I've  come  for  Agnes.  I 
guess  she'll  be  glad  to  go  with  me,  though  I 
suppose  her  stepmother  is  a  good  woman, 
and  has  always  done  for  her. " 

The  man's  warning  shake  at  his  wife  was 
fairly  portentous. 


8         -    The    Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"  I  guess  so, "  said  she. 

"  John  always  wrote  that  she  was  a  beauti 
ful  woman, "  said  Rebecca. 

Then  the  ferry-boat  grated  on  the  shore. 

John  Dent's  widow  had  sent  a  horse  and 
wagon  to  meet  her  sister-in-law.  When  the 
woman  and  her  husband  went  down  the 
road,  on  which  Rebecca  in  the  wagon  with 
her  trunk  soon  passed  them,  she  said  re 
proachfully  : 

1  'Seems  as  if  I'd  ought  to  have  told  her, 
Thomas." 

"Let  her  find  it  out  herself,"  replied  the 
man.  "  Don't  you  go  to  burnin'  your  fingers 
in  other  folks'  puddin',  Maria." 

"Do  you  s'pose  she'll  see  anything?" 
asked  the  woman  with  a  spasmodic  shudder 
and  a  terrified  roll  of  her  eyes. 

"See!"  returned  her  husband  with  stolid 
scorn.  "Better  be  sure  there's  anything 
to  see." 

"Oh,  Thomas,  they  say " 

"  Lord,  ain't  you  found  out  that  what  they 
say  is  mostly  lies?" 

"But  if  it  should  be  true,  and  she's  a 
nervous  woman,  she  might  be  scared  enough 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  9 

to  lose  her  wits, "  said  his  wife,  staring 
uneasily  after  Rebecca's  erect  figure  in  the 
wagon  disappearing  over  the  crest  of  the 
hilly  road. 

"Wits  that  so  easy  upset  ain't  worth 
much,"  declared  the  man.  "You  keep  out 
of  it,  Maria." 

Rebecca  in  the  meantime  rode  on  in  the 
wagon,  beside  a  flaxen-headed  boy,  who 
looked,  to  her  understanding,  not  very  bright. 
She  asked  him  a  question,  and  he  paid  no 
attention.  She  repeated  it,  and  he  responded 
with  a  bewildered  and  incoherent  grunt. 
Then  she  let  him  alone,  after  making  sure 
that  he  knew  how  to  drive  straight. 

They  had  traveled  about  half  a  mile, 
passed  the  village  square,  and  gone  a  short 
distance  beyond,  when  the  boy  drew  up  with 
a  sudden  Whoa !  before  a  very  prosperous- 
looking  house.  It  had  been  one  of  the 
aboriginal  cottages  of  the  vicinity,  small  and 
white,  with  a  roof  extending  on  one  side 
over  a  piazza,  and  a  tiny  "L"  jutting  out 
in  the  rear,  on  the  right  hand.  Now  the 
cottage  was  transformed  by  dormer  windows, 
a  bay  window  on  the  piazzaless  side,  a  carved 


io  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

railing  down  the  front  steps,  and  a  modern 
hard-wood  door. 

"Is  this  John  Dent's  house?"  asked 
Rebecca. 

The  boy  was  as  sparing  of  speech  as  a 
philosopher.  His  only  response  was  in  fling 
ing  the  reins  over  the  horse's  back,  stretching 
out  one  foot  to  the  shaft,  and  leaping  out  of 
the  wagon,  then  going  around  to  the  rear 
for  the  trunk.  Rebecca  got  out  and  went 
toward  the  house.  Its  white  paint  had  a 
new  gloss;  its  blinds  were  an  immaculate 
apple  green ;  the  lawn  was  trimmed  as  smooth 
as  velvet,  and  it  was  dotted  with  scrupulous 
groups  of  hydrangeas  and  cannas. 

"I  always  understood  that  John  Dent  was 
well-to-do,"  Rebecca  reflected  comfortably. 
"I  guess  Agnes  will  have  considerable.  I've 
got  enough,  but  it  will  come  in  handy  for 
her  schooling.  She  can  have  advantages." 

The  boy  dragged  the  trunk  up  the  fine 
gravel-walk,  but  before  he  reached  the  steps 
leading  up  to  the  piazza,  for  the  house  stood 
on  a  terrace,  the  front  door  opened  and  a 
fair,  frizzled  head  of  a  very  large  and  hand 
some  woman  appeared.  She  held  up  her 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  n 

black  silk  skirt,  disclosing  voluminous  ruffles 
of  starched  embroidery,  and  waited  for 
Rebecca.  She  smiled  placidly,  her  pink, 
double-chinned  face  widened  and  dimpled, 
but  her  blue  eyes  were  wary  and  calculating. 
She  extended  her  hand  as  Rebecca  climbed 
the  steps. 

'This  is  Miss  Flint,  I  suppose,"  said  she. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  Rebecca,  noticing 
with  bewilderment  a  curious  expression 
compounded  of  fear  and  defiance  on  the 
other's  face. 

"Your  letter  only  arrived  this  morning," 
said  Mrs.  Dent,  in  a  steady  voice.  Her 
great  face  was  a  uniform  pink,  and  her 
china-blue  eyes  were  at  once  aggressive  and 
veiled  with  secrecy. 

"Yes,  I  hardly  thought  you'd  get  my 
letter,"  replied  Rebecca.  "I  felt  as  if  I 
could  not  wait  to  hear  from  you  before  I 
came.  I  supposed  you  would  be  so  situated 
that  you  could  have  me  a  little  while  with 
out  putting  you  out  too  much,  from  what 
John  used  to  write  me  about  his  circum 
stances,  and  when  I  had  that  money  so 
unexpected  I  felt  as  if  I  must  come  for 


12  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Agnes.  I  suppose  you  will  be  willing  to 
give  her  up.  You  know  she's  my  own 
blood,  and  of  course  she's  no  relation  to 
you,  though  you  must  have  got  attached  to 
her.  I  know  from  her  picture  what  a  sweet 
girl  she  must  be,  and  John  always  said  she 
looked  like  her  own  mother,  and  Grace  was 
a  beautiful  woman,  if  she  was  my  sister." 

Rebecca  stopped  and  stared  at  the  other 
woman  in  amazement  and  alarm.  The  great 
handsome  blonde  creature  stood  speechless, 
livid,  gasping,  with  her  hand  to  her  heart, 
her  lips  parted  in  a  horrible  caricature  of 
a  smile. 

"Are  you  sick !"  cried  Rebecca,  drawing 
near.  "Don't  you  want  me  to  get  you 
some  water !" 

Then  Mrs.  Dent  recovered  herself  with 
a  great  effort.  "It  is  nothing,"  she  said. 
"I  am  subject  to — spells.  I  am  over  it 
now.  Won't  you  come  in,  Miss  Flint?" 

As  she  spoke,  the  beautiful  deep-rose  colour 
suffused  her  face,  her  blue  eyes  met  her 
visitor's  with  the  opaqueness  of  turquoise — 
with  a  revelation  of  blue,  but  a  concealment 
of  all  behind. 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  13 

Rebecca  followed  her  hostess  in,  and  the 
boy,  who  had  waited  quiescently,  climbed 
the  steps  with  the  trunk.  But  before  they 
entered  the  door  a  strange  thing  happened. 
On  the  upper  terrace,  close  to  the  piazza-post, 
grew  a  great  rose-bush,  and  on  it,  late  in 
the  season  though  it  was,  one  small  red, 
perfect  rose. 

Rebecca  looked  at  it,  and  the  other  woman 
extended  her  hand  with  a  quick  gesture. 
"  Don't  you  pick  that  rose !"  she  brusquely 
cried. 

Rebecca  drew  herself  up  with  stiff  dig 
nity. 

"I  ain't  in  the  habit  of  picking  other  folks' 
roses  without  leave,"  said  she. 

As  Rebecca  spoke  she  started  violently, 
and  lost  sight  of  her  resentment,  for  some 
thing  singular  happened.  Suddenly  the  rose 
bush  was  agitated  violently  as  if  by  a  gust 
of  wind,  yet  it  was  a  remarkably  still  day. 
Not  a  leaf  of  the  hydrangea  standing  on  the 
terrace  close  to  the  rose  trembled. 

"What  on  earth—  "  began  Rebecca,  then 
she  stopped  with  a  gasp  at  the  sight  of  the 
other  woman's  face.  Although  a  face,  it 


14  The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 

gave  somehow  the  impression  of  a  desper 
ately  clutched  hand  of  secrecy. 

"Come  in  !"  said  she  in  a  harsh  voice,  which 
seemed  to  come  forth  from  her  chest  with 
no  intervention  of  the  organs  of  speech. 
"Come  into  the  house.  I'm  getting  cold 
out  here." 

"What  makes  that  rose-bush  blow  so  when 
there  isn't  any  wind?"  asked  Rebecca, 
trembling  with  vague  horror,  yet  resolute. 

"I  don't  see  as  it  is  blowing,"  returned  the 
woman  calmly.  And  as  she  spoke,  indeed, 
the  bush  was  quiet. 

"It  was  blowing,"  declared  Rebecca. 

"It  isn't  now,"  said  Mrs.  Dent.  "I  can't 
try  to  account  for  everything  that  blows 
out-of-doors.  I  have  too  much  to  do." 

She  spoke  scornfully  and  confidently,  with 
defiant,  unflinching  eyes,  first  on  the  bush, 
then  on  Rebecca,  and  led  the  way  into  the 
house. 

"It  looked  queer,"  persisted  Rebecca, 
but  she  followed,  and  also  the  boy  with  the 
trunk. 

Rebecca  entered  an  interior,  prosperous, 
even  elegant,  according  to  her  simple  ideas. 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  15 

There  were  Brussels  carpets,  lace  curtains, 
and  plenty  of  brilliant  upholstery  and  pol 
ished  wood. 

"You're  real  nicely  situated,"  remarked 
Rebecca,  after  she  had  become  a  little 
accustomed  to  her  new  surroundings  and 
the  two  women  were  seated  at  the  tea-table. 

Mrs.  Dent  stared  with  a  hard  complacency 
from  behind  her  silver-plated  service.  "Yes, 
I  be,"  said  she. 

"You  got  all  the  things  new  ?"  said  Rebecca 
hesitatingly,  with  a  jealous  memory  of  her 
dead  sister's  bridal  furnishings. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Dent;  "I  was  never  one 
to  want  dead  folks'  things,  and  I  had  money 
enough  of  my  own,  so  I  wasn't  beholden  to 
John.  I  had  the  old  duds  put  up  at  auction. 
They  didn't  bring  much." 

"I  suppose  you  saved  some  for  Agnes. 
She'll  want  some  of  her  poor  mother's  things 
when  she  is  grown  up,"  said  Rebecca  with 
some  indignation. 

The  defiant  stare  of  Mrs.  Dent's  blue  eyes 
waxed  more  intense.  "There's  a  few  things 
up  garret,"  said  she. 

"She'll  be  likely  to  value  them,"  remarked 


1 6  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Rebecca.  As  she  spoke  she  glanced  at  the 
window.  "Isn't  it  most  time  for  her  to  be 
coming  home  ?"  she  asked. 

"Most  time,"  answered  Mrs.  Dent  care 
lessly;  "but  when  she  gets  over  to  Addie 
Slocum's  she  never  knows  when  to  come 
home." 

"Is  Addie  Slocum  her  intimate  friend?" 

"Intimate  as  any." 

"Maybe  we  can  have  her  come  out  to 
see  Agnes  when  she's  living  with  me,"  said 
Rebecca  wistfully.  "I  suppose  she'll  be 
likely  to  be  homesick  at  first." 

"Most  likely,"  answered  Mrs.  Dent. 

"Does  she  call  you  mother?"  Rebecca 
asked. 

"No,  she  calls  me  Aunt  Emeline,"  replied 
the  other  woman  shortly.  "When  did  you 
say  you  were  going  home?" 

"In  about  a  week,  I  thought,  if  she  can 
be  ready  to  go  so  soon,"  answered  Rebecca 
with  a  surprised  look. 

She  reflected  that  she  would  not  remain 
a  day  longer  than  she  could  help  after  such 
an  inhospitable  look  and  question. 

"Oh,  as  far  as  that  goes,"  said  Mrs.  Dent, 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  17 

''it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  about 
her  being  ready.  You  could  go  home  when 
ever  you  felt  that  you  must,  and  she  could 
come  afterward." 

"Alone?" 

"Why  not  ?  She's  a  big  girl  now,  and  you 
don't  have  to  change  cars." 

"My  niece  will  go  home  when  I  do,  and 
not  travel  alone;  and  if  I  can't  wait  here 
for  her,  in  the  house  that  used  to  be  her 
mother's  and  my  sister's  home,  I'll  go  and 
board  somewhere,"  returned  Rebecca  with 
warmth. 

"Oh,  you  can  stay  here  as  long  as  you 
want. to.  You're  welcome,"  said  Mrs.  Dent. 

Then  Rebecca  started.  "There  she  is !" 
she  declared  in  a  trembling,  exultant  voice. 
Nobody  knew  how  she  longed  to  see  the 
girl. 

"She  isn't  as  late  as  I  thought  she'd  be," 
said  Mrs.  Dent,  and  again  that  curious, 
subtle  change  passed  over  her  face,  and  again 
it  settled  into  that  stony  impassiveness. 

Rebecca  stared  at  the  door,  waiting  for  it 
to  open.  "Where  is  she?"  she  asked  pres 
ently. 


1 8  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"I  guess  she's  stopped  to  take  off  her  hat 
in  the  entry,"  suggested  Mrs.  Dent. 

Rebecca  waited.  "Why  don't  she  come? 
It  can't  take  her  all  this  time  to  take  off  her 
hat." 

For  answer  Mrs.  Dent  rose  with  a  stiff 
jerk  and  threw  open  the  door. 

1  'Agnes  !"  she  called.  '  'Agnes  .' '  Then  she 
turned  and  eyed  Rebecca.  "She  ain't 
there." 

"I  saw  her  pass  the  window,"  said  Rebecca 
in  bewilderment. 

"You  must  have  been  mistaken." 

"I  know  I  did,"  persisted  Rebecca. 

"You  couldn't  have." 

"I  did.  I  saw  first  a  shadow  go  over 
the  ceiling,  then  I  saw  her  in  the  glass  there" 
— she  pointed  to  a  mirror  over  the  sideboard 
opposite — "and  then  the  shadow  passed  the 
window." 

"How  did  she  look  in  the  glass  ?" 

"Little  and  light-haired,  with  the  light 
hair  kind  of  tossing  over  her  forehead." 

"You  couldn't  have  seen  her." 

"Was  that  like  Agnes?" 

'Like  enough;  but  of  course  you  didn't 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  19 

see  her.  You've  been  thinking  so  much 
about  her  that  you  thought  you  did." 

"You  thought  you  did." 

"I  thought  I  saw  a  shadow  pass  the  win 
dow,  but  I  must  have  been  mistaken.  She 
didn't  come  in,  or  we  would  have  seen  her 
before  now.  I  knew  it  was  too  early  for  her 
to  get  home  from  Addie  Slocum's,  anyhow." 

When  Rebecca  went  to  bed  Agnes  had 
not  returned.  Rebecca  had  resolved  that 
she  would  not  retire  until  the  girl  came, 
but  she  was  very  tired,  and  she  reasoned 
with  herself  that  she  was  foolish.  Besides, 
Mrs.  Dent  suggested  that  Agnes  might  go 
to  the  church  social  with  Addie  Slocum. 
When  Rebecca  suggested  that  she  be  sent 
for  and  told  that  her  aunt  had  come,  Mrs. 
Dent  laughed  meaningly. 

"  I  guess  you'll  find  out  that  a  young  girl 
ain't  so  ready  to  leave  a  sociable,  where 
there's  boys,  to  see  her  aunt, "  said  she. 

"  She's  too  young, "  said  Rebecca  incredu 
lously  and  indignantly. 

" She's  sixteen,"  replied  Mrs.  Dent;  "and 
she's  always  been  great  for  the  boys. " 

"She's  going  to  school  four  years  after  I 


20  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

get  her  before  she  thinks  of  boys,"  declared 
Rebecca. 

"We'll  see,"  laughed  the  other  woman. 

After  Rebecca  went  to  bed,  she  lay  awake 
a  long  time  listening  for  the  sound  of  girlish 
laughter  and  a  boy's  voice  under  her  window; 
then  she  fell  asleep. 

The  next  morning  she  was  down  early. 
Mrs.  Dent,  who  kept  no  servants,  was  busily 
preparing  breakfast. 

"  Don't  Agnes  help  you  about  breakfast  ? " 
asked  Rebecca. 

"No,  I  let  her  lay,"  replied  Mrs.  Dent 
shortly. 

"  What  time  did  she  get  home  last  night  ? " 

"She  didn't  get  home." 

"What?" 

"She  didn't  get  home.  She  stayed  with 
Addie.  She  often  does." 

"Without  sending  you  word?" 

"  Oh,  she  knew  I  wouldn't  worry. " 

"  When  will  she  be  home  ? " 

"Oh,  I  guess  she'll  be  along  pretty  soon. " 

Rebecca  was  uneasy,  but  she  tried  to  con 
ceal  it,  for  she  knew  of  no  good  reason  for 
uneasiness.  What  was  there  to  occasion 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  21 

alarm  in  the  fact  of  one  young  girl  staying 
overnight  with  another?  She  could  not 
eat  much  breakfast.  Afterward  she  went 
out  on  the  little  piazza,  although  her  hostess 
strove  furtively  to  stop  her. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  out  back  of  the  house  ? 
It's  real  pretty — a  view  over  the  river,"  she 
said. 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  out  here, "  replied  Rebecca. 
She  had  a  purpose :  to  watch  for  the  absent 
girl. 

Presently  Rebecca  came  hustling  into  the 
house  through  the  sitting-room,  into  the 
kitchen  where  Mrs.  Dent  was  cooking. 

"That  rose-bush!"  she  gasped. 

Mrs.  Dent  turned  and  faced  her. 

"What  of  it?" 

"It's  a-blowing." 

"What  of  it?" 

"There  isn't  a  mite  of  wind  this  morn 
ing." 

Mrs.  Dent  turned  with  an  inimitable  toss 
of  her  fair  head.  "  If  you  think  I  can  spend 

my  time  puzzling  over  such  nonsense  as " 

she  began,  but  Rebecca  interrupted  her  with 
a  cry  and  a  rush  to  the  door. 


22  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"  There  she  is  now !"  she  cried. 

She  flung  the  door  wide  open,  and  curiously 
enough  a  breeze  came  in  and  her  own  gray 
hair  tossed,  and  a  paper  blew  off  the  table 
to  the  floor  with  a  loud  rustle,  but  there  was 
nobody  in  sight. 

"There's  nobody  here,"  Rebecca  said. 

She  looked  blankly  at  the  other  woman, 
who  brought  her  rolling-pin  down  on  a  slab 
of  pie-crust  with  a  thud. 

"  I  didn't  hear  anybody, "  she  said  calmly. 

"/  saw  somebody  pass  that  window!" 

11  You  were  mistaken  again. " 

"  I  know  I  saw  somebody. " 

''You  couldn't  have.  Please  shut  that 
door." 

Rebecca  shut  the  door.  She  sat  down 
beside  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the 
autumnal  yard,  with  its  little  curve  of  foot 
path  to  the  kitchen  door. 

"What  smells  so  strong  of  roses  in  this 
room  ? ' '  she  said  presently.  She  sniffed  hard. 

"I  don't  smell  anything  but  these  nut 
megs.  " 

"  It  is  not  nutmeg. " 

"  I  don't  smell  anything  else. " 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  23 

"Where  do  you  suppose  Agnes  is?" 

"Oh,  perhaps  she  has  gone  over  the  ferry 
to  Porter's  Falls  with  Addie.  She  often 
does.  Addie' s  got  an  aunt  over  there,  and 
Addie 's  got  a  cousin,  a  real  pretty  boy. " 

"You  suppose  she's  gone  over  there?" 

"  Mebbe.     I  shouldn't  wonder. " 

"When  should  she  be  home?" 

"Oli,  not  before  afternoon. " 

Rebecca  waited  with  all  the  patience  she 
could  muster.  She  kept  reassuring  herself, 
telling  herself  that  it  was  all  natural,  that 
the  other  woman  could  not  help  it,  but  she 
made  up  her  mind  that  if  Agnes  did  not 
return  that  afternoon  she  should  be  sent  for. 

When  it  was  four  o'clock  she  started  up 
with  resolution.  She  had  been  furtively 
watching  the  onyx  clock  on  the  sitting-room 
mantel ;  she  had  timed  herself.  She  had  said 
that  if  Agnes  was  not  home  by  that  time 
she  should  demand  that  she  be  sent  for. 
She  rose  and  stood  before  Mrs.  Dent,  who 
looked  up  coolly  from  her  embroidery. 

"  I've  waited  just  as  long  as  I'm  going  to, " 
she  said.  "  I've  come  'way  from  Michigan 
to  see  my  own  sister's  daughter  and  take 


24  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

her  home  with  me.  I've  been  here  ever 
since  yesterday — twenty-four  hours — and  I 
haven't  seen  her.  Now  I'm  going  to.  I 
want  her  sent  for." 

Mrs.  Dent  folded  her  embroidery  and  rose. 

"  Well,  I  don't  blame  you, "  she  said.  "  It 
is  high  time  she  came  home.  I'll  go  right 
over  and  get  her  myself." 

Rebecca  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  She 
hardly  knew  what  she  had  suspected  or 
feared,  but  she  knew  that  her  position  had 
been  one  of  antagonism  if  not  accusation, 
and  she  was  sensible  of  relief. 

"I  wish  you  would,"  she  said  gratefully, 
and  went  back  to  her  chair,  while  Mrs.  Dent 
got  her  shawl  and  her  little  white  head-tie. 
"  I  wouldn't  trouble  you,  but  I  do  feel  as  if 
I  couldn't  wait  any  longer  to  see  her,"  she 
remarked  apologetically. 

"Oh,  it  ain't  any  trouble  at  all,"  said 
Mrs.  Dent  as  she  went  out.  "  I  don't  blame 
you;  you  have  waited  long  enough." 

Rebecca  sat  at  the  window  watching 
breathlessly  until  Mrs.  Dent  came  stepping 
through  the  yard  alone.  She  ran  to  the 
door  and  saw,  hardly  noticing  it  this  time, 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  25 

that  the  rose-bush  was  again  violently 
agitated,  yet  with  no  wind  evident  elsewhere. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  she  cried. 

Mrs.  Dent  laughed  with  stiff  lips  as  she 
came  up  the  steps  over  the  terrace.  "  Girls 
will  be  girls,"  said  she.  "She's  gone  with 
Addie  to  Lincoln.  Addie's  got  an  uncle 
who's  conductor  on  the  train,  and  lives  there, 
and  he  got  'em  passes,  and  they're  goin'  to 
stay  to  Addie's  Aunt  Margaret's  a  few  days. 
Mrs.  Slocum  said  Agnes  didn't  have  time  to 
come  over  and  ask  me  before  the  train  went, 
but  she  took  it  on  herself  to  say  it  would  be 
all  right,  and " 

"Why  hadn't  she  been  over  to  tell  you?" 
Rebecca  was  angry,  though  not  suspicious. 
She  even  saw  no  reason  for  her  anger. 

"Oh,  she  was  putting  up  grapes.  She 
was  coming  over  just  as  soon  as  she  got 
the  black  off  her  hands.  She  heard  I  had 
company,  and  her  hands  were  a  sight.  She 
was  holding  them  over  sulphur  matches. " 

"  You  say  she's  going  to  stay  a  few  days  ?  " 
repeated  Rebecca  dazedly. 

"Yes;  till  Thursday,  Mrs.  Slocum  said." 

"How  far  is  Lincoln  from  here?" 


26  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"About  fifty  miles.     It'll  be  a  real  treat 
to  her.     Mrs.  Slocum's  sister  is  a  real  nice 


woman." 


"It  is  goin'  to  make  it  pretty  late  about 
my  goin'  home." 

"If  you  don't  feel  as  if  you  could  wait, 
I'll  get  her  ready  and  send  her  on  just  as 
soon  as  I  can, "  Mrs.  Dent  said  sweetly. 

"I'm  going  to  wait,"  said  Rebecca 
grimly. 

The  two  women  sat  down  again,  and  Mrs. 
Dent  took  up  her  embroidery. 

"Is  there  any  sewing  I  can  do  for  her?" 
Rebecca  asked  finally  in  a  desperate  way. 
"  If  I  can  get  her  sewing  along  some " 

Mrs.  Dent  arose  with  alacrity  and  fetched 
a  mass  of  white  from  the  closet.  "Here," 
she  said,  "  if  you  want  to  sew  the  lace  on  this 
nightgown.  I  was  going  to  put  her  to  it,  but 
she'll  be  glad  enough  to  get  rid  of  it.  She 
ought  to  have  this  and  one  more  before  she 
goes.  I  don't  like  to  send  her  away  without 
some  good  underclothing." 

Rebecca  snatched  at  the  little  white 
garment  and  sewed  feverishly. 

That  night  she  wakened  from  a  deep  sleep 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  27 

a  little  after  midnight  and  lay  a  minute 
trying  to  collect  her  faculties  and  explain 
to  herself  what  she  was  listening  to.  At 
last  she  discovered  that  it  was  the  then 
popular  strains  of  "The  Maiden's  Prayer" 
floating  up  through  the  floor  from  the  piano 
in  the  sitting-room  below.  She  jumped  up, 
threw  a  shawl  over  her  nightgown,  and 
hurried  downstairs  trembling.  There  was 
nobody  in  the  sitting-room;  the  piano  was 
silent.  She  ran  to  Mrs.  Dent's  bedroom 
and  called  hysterically : 

"Emeline!     Emeline!" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Dent's  voice 
from  the  bed.  The  voice  was  stern,  but 
had  a  note  of  consciousness  in  it. 

"Who  —  who  was  that  playing  'The 
Maiden's  Prayer'  in  the  sitting-room,  on  the 
piano?" 

"I  didn't  hear  anybody." 

"There  was  some  one." 

"I  didn't  hear  anything." 

"I  tell  you  there  was  some  one.  But — 
there  ain't  anybody  there. " 

"I  didn't  hear  anything." 

"I  did — somebody  playing  'The  Maiden's 


28  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Prayer*  on  the  piano.  Has  Agnes  got  home  ? 
I  want  to  know. " 

"Of  course  Agnes  hasn't  got  home," 
answered  Mrs.  Dent  with  rising  inflection. 
"Be  you  gone  crazy  over  that  girl?  The 
last  boat  from  Porter's  Falls  was  in  before 
we  went  to  bed.  Of  course  she  ain't  come. " 

"I  heard " 

"  You  were  dreaming. " 

"  I  wasn't ;  I  was  broad  awake. " 

Rebecca  went  back  to  her  chamber  and 
kept  her  lamp  burning  all  night. 

The  next  morning  her  eyes  upon  Mrs. 
Dent  were  wary  and  blazing  with  suppressed 
excitement.  She  kept  opening  her  mouth  as 
if  to  speak,  then  frowning,  and  setting  her 
lips  hard.  After  breakfast  she  went  upstairs, 
and  came  down  presently  with  her  coat  and 
bonnet. 

"Now,  Emeline, "  she  said,  "I  want  to 
know  where  the  Slocums  live. " 

Mrs.  Dent  gave  a  strange,  long,  half-lidded 
glance  at  her.  She  was  finishing  her  coffee. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"  I'm  going  over  there  and  find  out  if  they 
have  heard  anything  from  her  daughter  and 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  29 

Agnes  since  they  went  away.     I  don't  like 
what  I  heard  last  night. " 

"  You  must  have  been  dreaming. " 

"  It  don't  make  any  odds  whether  I  was  or 
not.  Does  she  play  The  Maiden's  Prayer' 
on  the  piano?  I  want  to  know." 

'  "  What  if  she  does  ?  She  plays  it  a  little, 
I  believe.  I  don't  know.  She  don't  half 
play  it,  anyhow;  she  ain't  got  an  ear." 

"That  wasn't  half  played  last  night.  I 
don't  like  such  things  happening.  I  ain't 
superstitious,  but  I  don't  like  it.  I'm  going. 
Where  do  the  Slocum's  live?" 

"You  go  down  the  road  over  the  bridge 
past  the  old  grist  mill,  then  you  turn  to  the 
left ;  it's  the  only  house  for  half  a  mile.  You 
can't  miss  it.  It  has  a  barn  with  a  ship  in 
full  sail  on  the  cupola." 

"Well,  I'm  going.     I  don't  feel  easy." 

About  two  hours  later  Rebecca  returned. 
There  were  red  spots  on  her  cheeks.  She 
looked  wild.  "I've  been  there,"  she  said, 
"  and  there  isn't  a  soul  at  home.  Something 
has  happened." 

"What  has  happened?" 

"I    don't    know.     Something.     I    had    a 


30  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

warning  last  night.  There  wasn't  a  soul 
there.  They've  been  sent  for  to  Lincoln." 

"Did  you  see  anybody  to  ask?"  asked 
Mrs.  Dent  with  thinly  concealed  anxiety. 

"  I  asked  the  woman  that  lives  on  the 
turn  of  the  road.  She's  stone  deaf.  I 
suppose  you  know.  She  listened  while  I 
screamed  at  her  to  know  where  the  Slocums 
were,  and  then  she  said,  'Mrs.  Smith  don't 
live  here.'  I  didn't  see  anybody  on  the 
road,  and  that's  the  only  house.  What  do 
you  suppose  it  means?" 

"I  don't  suppose  it  means  much  of  any 
thing,"  replied  Mrs.  Dent  coolly.  "Mr. 
Slocum  is  conductor  on  the  railroad,  and  he'd 
be  away  anyway,  and  Mrs.  Slocum  often 
goes  early  when  he  does,  to  spend  the  day 
with  her  sister  in  Porter's  Falls.  She'd  be 
more  likely  to  go  away  than  Addie. " 

"And  you  don't  think  anything  has  hap 
pened?"  Rebecca  asked  with  diminishing 
distrust  before  the  reasonableness  of  it. 

"Land,  no!" 

Rebecca  went  upstairs  to  lay  aside  her 
coat  and  bonnet.  But  she  came  hurrying 
back  with  them  still  on. 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  31 

"Who's  been  in  my  room?"  she  gasped. 
Her  face  was  pale  as  ashes. 

Mrs.  Dent  also  paled  as  she  regarded  her. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  slowly. 

"I  found  when  I  went  upstairs  that- 
little  nightgown  of — Agnes 's  on — the  bed, 
laid  out.  It  was — laid  out.  The  sleeves 
were  folded  across  the  bosom,  and  there  was 
that  little  red  rose  between  them.  Emeline, 
what  is  it?  Emeline,  what's  the  matter? 
Oh!" 

Mrs.  Dent  was  struggling  for  breath  in 
great,  choking  gasps.  She  clung  to  the 
back  of  a  chair.  Rebecca,  trembling  herself 
so  she  could  scarcely  keep  on  her  feet,  got 
her  some  water. 

As  soon  as  she  recovered  herself  Mrs. 
Dent  regarded  her  with  eyes  full  of  the 
strangest  mixture  of  fear  and  horror  and 
hostility. 

"  What  do  you  mean  talking  so  ?"  she  said 
in  a  hard  voice. 

"l\,  is  there." 

"  Nonsense.  You  threw  it  down  and  it 
fell  that  way." 

"It  was  folded  in  my  bureau  drawer." 


32  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"  It  couldn't  have  been. " 

11  Who  picked  that  red  rose?" 

"Look  on  the  bush,"  Mrs.  Dent  replied 
shortly. 

Rebecca  looked  at  her;  her  mouth  gaped. 
She  hurried  out  of  the  room.  When  she 
came  back  her  eyes  seemed  to  protrude. 
(She  had  in  the  meantime  hastened  upstairs, 
and  come  down  with  tottering  steps,  cling 
ing  to  the  banisters.) 

"Now  I  want  to  know  what  all  this 
means?"  she  demanded. 

"  What  what  means  ? " 

"The  rose  is  on  the  bush,  and  it's  gone 
from  the  bed  in  my  room !  Is  this  house 
haunted,  or  what?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  a  house 
being  haunted.  I  don't  believe  in  such 
things.  Be  you  crazy?"  Mrs.  Dent  spoke 
with  gathering  force.  The  colour  flashed 
back  to  her  cheeks. 

"No,"  said  Rebecca  shortly.  "I  ain't 
crazy  yet,  but  I  shall  be  if  this  keeps  on 
much  longer.  I'm  going  to  find  out  where 
that  girl  is  before  night. " 

Mrs.  Dent  eved  her. 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  33 

"What  be  you  going  to  do?" 

"I'm  going  to  Lincoln. " 

A  faint  triumphant  smile  overspread 
Mrs.  Dent's  large  face. 

"You  can't,"  said  she;  "there  ain't  any 
train." 

"No  train?" 

"No;  there  ain't  any  afternoon  train  from 
the  Falls  to  Lincoln." 

"Then  I'm  going  over  to  the  Slocums' 
again  to-night." 

However,  Rebecca  did  not  go ;  such  a  rain 
came  up  as  deterred  even  her  resolution, 
and  she  had  only  her  best  dresses  with  her. 
Then  in  the  evening  came  the  letter  from 
the  Michigan  village  which  she  had  left 
nearly  a  week  ago.  It  was  from  her  cousin, 
a  single  woman,  who  had  come  to  keep  her 
house  while  she  was  away.  It  was  a  pleasant 
unexciting  letter  enough,  all  the  first  of  it, 
and  related  mostly  how  she  missed  Rebecca ; 
how  she  hoped  she  was  having  pleasant 
weather  and  kept  her  health;  and  how  her 
friend,  Mrs.  Greenaway,  had  come  to  stay 
with  her  since  she  had  felt  lonesome  the  first 
night  in  the  house;  how  she  hoped  Rebecca 


34  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

would  have  no  objections  to  this,  although 
nothing  had  been  said  about  it,  since  she 
had  not  realized  that  she  might  be  nervous 
alone.  The  cousin  was  painfully  conscien 
tious,  hence  the  letter.  Rebecca  smiled  in 
spite  of  her  disturbed  mind  as  she  read  it, 
then  her  eye  caught  the  postscript.  That 
was  in  a  different  hand,  purporting  to  be 
written  by  the  friend,  Mrs.  Hannah  Green- 
away,  informing  her  that  the  cousin  had 
fallen  down  the  cellar  stairs  and  broken  her 
hip,  and  was  in  a  dangerous  condition,  and 
begging  Rebecca  to  return  at  once,  as  she 
herself  was  rheumatic  and  unable  to  nurse 
her  properly,  and  no  one  else  could  be 
obtained. 

Rebecca  looked  at  Mrs.  Dent,  who  had 
come  to  her  room  with  the  letter  quite  late; 
it  was  half-past  nine,  and  she  had  gone 
upstairs  for  the  night. 

"  Where  did  this  come  from?"  she  asked. 

"Mr.  Amblecrom brought  it,"  she  replied. 

"Who's  he?" 

"The  postmaster.  He  often  brings  the 
letters  that  come  on  the  late  mail.  He 
knows  I  ain't  anybody  to  send.  He  brought 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  35 

yours  about  your  coming.  He  said  he  and 
his  wife  came  over  on  the  ferry-boat  with 
you." 

"I  remember  him,"  Rebecca  replied 
shortly.  "  There's  bad  news  in  this  letter. " 

Mrs.  Dent's  face  took  on  an  expression  of 
serious  inquiry. 

"Yes,  my  Cousin  Harriet  has  fallen  down 
the  cellar  stairs — they  were  always  danger 
ous — and  she's  broken  her  hip,  and  I've  got 
to  take  the  first  train  home  to-morrow. " 

"  You  don't  say  so.     I'm  dreadfully  sorry." 

"No,  you  ain't  sorry!"  said  Rebecca, 
with  a  look  as  if  she  leaped.  "  You're  glad. 
I  don't  know  why,  but  you're  glad.  You've 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  me  for  some  reason  ever 
since  I  came.  I  don't  know  why.  You're  a 
strange  woman.  Now  you've  got  your  way, 
and  I  hope  you're  satisfied. " 

"How  you  talk." 

Mrs.  Dent  spoke  in  a  faintly  injured  voice, 
but  there  was  a  light  in  her  eyes. 

"I  talk  the  way  it  is.  Well,  I'm  going 
to-morrow  morning,  and  I  want  you,  just 
as  soon  as  Agnes  Dent  comes  home,  to  send 
her  out  to  me.  Don't  you  wait  for  anything. 


36  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

You  pack  what  clothes  she's  got,  and  don't 
wait  even  to  mend  them,  and  you  buy  her 
ticket.  I'll  leave  the  money,  and  you  send 
her  along.  She  don't  have  to  change  cars. 
You  start  her  off,  when  she  gets  home,  on  the 
next  train !" 

"Very  well,"  replied  the  other  woman. 
She  had  an  expression  of  covert  amusement. 

"Mind  you  do  it." 

"Very  well,  Rebecca." 

Rebecca  started  on  her  journey  the  next 
morning.  When  she  arrived,  two  days  later, 
she  found  her  cousin  in  perfect  health.  She 
found,  moreover,  that  the  friend  had  not 
written  the  postscript  in  the  cousin's  letter. 
Rebecca  would  have  returned  to  Ford 
Village  the  next  morning,  but  the  fatigue  and 
nervous  strain  had  been  too  much  for  her. 
She  was  not  able  to  move  from  her  bed.  She 
had  a  species  of  low  fever  induced  by  anxiety 
and  fatigue.  But  she  could  write,  and  she 
did,  to  the  Slocums,  and  she  received  no 
answer.  She  also  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dent;  she 
even  sent  numerous  telegrams,  with  no 
response.  Finally  she  wrote  to  the  post 
master,  and  an  answer  arrived  by  the  first 


The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush  37 

possible  mail.  The  letter  was  short,  curt, 
and  to  the  purpose.  Mr.  Amblecrom,  the 
postmaster,  was  a  man  of  few  words,  and 
especially  wary  as  to  his  expressions  in  a 
letter. 

"Dear  madam,"  he  wrote,  "your  favour 
rec'ed.  No  Slocums  in  Ford's  Village.  All 
dead.  Addie  ten  years  ago,  her  mother 
two  years  later,  her  father  five.  House 
vacant.  Mrs.  John  Dent  said  to  have 
neglected  stepdaughter.  Girl  was  sick. 
Medicine  not  given.  Talk  of  taking  action. 
Not  enough  evidence.  House  said  to  be 
haunted.  Strange  sights  and  sounds.  Your 
niece,  Agnes  Dent,  died  a  year  ago,  about 

this  time. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"THOMAS  AMBLECROM." 


THE   SHADOWS   ON   THE   WALL 


THE   SHADOWS   ON  THE  WALL 

HENRY  had  words  with  Edward  in 
the  study  the  night  before  Edward 
died,"  said  Caroline  Glynn. 
She  was  elderly,  tall,  and  harshly  thin,  with 
a  hard  colourlessness  of  face.  She  spoke  not 
with  acrimony,  but  with  grave  severity. 
Rebecca  Ajin  Glynn,  younger,  stouter  and 
rosy  of  face  between  her  crinkling  puffs  of 
gray  hair,  gasped,  by  way  of  assent.  She  sat 
in  a  wide  flounce  of  black  silk  in  the  corner  of 
the  sofa,  and  rolled  terrified  eyes  from  her 
sister  Caroline  to  her  sister  Mrs.  Stephen 
Brigham,  who  had  been  Emma  Glynn,  the 
one  beauty  of  the  family.  She  was  beautiful 
still,  with  a  large,  splendid,  full-blown 
beauty;  she  filled  a  great  rocking-chair  with 
her  superb  bulk  of  femininity,  and  swayed 
gently  back  and  forth,  her  black  silks  whis 
pering  and  her  black  frills  fluttering.  Even 
the  shock  of  death  (for  her  brother  Edward 
lay  dead  in  the  house,)  could  not  disturb  her 
41 


42  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

outward  serenity  of  demeanour.  She  was 
grieved  over  the  loss  of  her  brother:  he  had 
been  the  youngest,  and  she  had  been  fond 
of  him,  but  never  had  Emma  Brigham  lost 
sight  of  her  own  importance  amidst  the 
waters  of  tribulation.  She  was  always  awake 
to  the  consciousness  of  her  own  stability  in 
the  midst  of  vicissitudes  and  the  splendour 
of  her  permanent  bearing. 

But  even  her  expression  of  masterly 
placidity  changed  before  her  sister  Caroline's 
announcement  and  her  sister  Rebecca  Ann's 
gasp  of  terror  and  distress  in  response. 

"I  think  Henry  might  have  controlled  his 
temper,  when  poor  Edward  was  so  near  his 
end,"  said  she  with  an  asperity  which  dis 
turbed  slightly  the  roseate  curves  of  her 
beautiful  mouth. 

"Of  course  he  did  not  know"  murmured 
Rebecca  Ann  in  a  faint  tone  strangely  out  of 
keeping  with  her  appearance. 

One  involuntarily  looked  again  to  be  sure 
that  such  a  feeble  pipe  came  from  that  full- 
swelling  chest. 

"Of  course  he  did  not  know  it,"  said 
Caroline  quickly.  She  turned  on  her  sister 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  43 

with  a  strange  sharp  look  of  suspicion. 
"How  could  he  have  known  it?"  said  she. 
Then  she  shrank  as  if  from  the  other's 
possible  answer.  "Of  course  you  and  I  both 
know  he  could  not,"  said  she  conclusively, 
but  her  pale  face  was  paler  than  it  had 
been  before. 

Rebecca  gasped  again.  The  married  sister, 
Mrs.  Emma  Brigham,  was  now  sitting  up 
straight  in  her  chair ;  she  had  ceased  rocking, 
and  was  eyeing  them  both  intently  with  a 
sudden  accentuation  of  family  likeness  in 
her  face.  Given  one  common  intensity  of 
emotion  and  similar  lines  showed  forth, 
and  the  three  sisters  of  one  race  were 
evident. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  she  impartially 
to  them  both.  Then  she,  too,  seemed  to 
shrink  before  a  possible  answer.  She  even 
laughed  an  evasive  sort  of  laugh.  "I  guess 
you  don't  mean  anything,"  said  she,  but  her 
face  wore  still  the  expression  of  shrinking 
horror. 

"Nobody  means  anything,"  said  Caroline 
firmly.  She  rose  and  crossed  the  room 
toward  the  door  with  grim  decisiveness. 


44  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

" Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Mrs. 
Brigham. 

"I  have  something  to  see  to,"  replied 
Caroline,  and  the  others  at  once  knew  by  her 
tone  that  she  had  some  solemn  and  sad 
duty  to  perform  in  the  chamber  of  death. 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Brigham. 

After  the  door  had  closed  behind  Caroline, 
she  turned  to  Rebecca. 

"Did  Henry  have  many  words  with  him?" 
she  asked. 

"They  were  talking  very  loud,"  replied 
Rebecca  evasively,  yet  with  an  answering 
gleam  of  ready  response  to  the  other's 
curiosity  in  the  quick  lift  of  her  soft  blue  eyes. 

Mrs.  Brigham  looked  at  her.  She  had  not 
resumed  rocking.  She  still  sat  up  straight 
with  a  slight  knitting  of  intensity  on  her  fair 
forehead,  between  the  pretty  rippling  curves 
of  her  auburn  hair. 

"Did  you — hear  anything  ?"  she  asked  in  a 
low  voice  with  a  glance  toward  the  door. 

"I  was  just  across  the  hall  in  the  south 
parlour,  and  that  door  was  open  and  this 
door  ajar,"  replied  Rebecca  with  a  slight 
flush. 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  45 

"Then  you  must  have " 

"I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Everything?" 

"Most  of  it." 

"What  was  it?" 

"The  old  story." 

"I  suppose  Henry  was  mad,  as  he  always 
was,  because  Edward  was  living  on  here  for 
nothing,  when  he  had  wasted  all  the  money 
father  left  him." 

Rebecca  nodded  with  a  fearful  glance  at  the 
door. 

When  Emma  spoke  again  her  voice  was 
still  more  hushed.  "I  know  how  he  felt," 
said  she.  "He  had  always  been  so  prudent 
himself,  and  worked  hard  at  his  profession, 
and  there  Edward  had  never  done  anything 
but  spend,  and  it  must  have  looked  to  him 
as  if  Edward  was  living  at  his  expense,  but 
he  wasn't." 

"No,  he  wasn't." 

"It  was  the  way  father  left  the  property 
— that  all  the  children  should  have  a  home 
here — and  he  left  money  enough  to  buy  the 
food  and  all  if  we  had  all  come  home." 

"Yes." 


46  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"And  Edward  had  a  right  here  according 
to  the  terms  of  father's  will,  and  Henry  ought 
to  have  remembered  it." 

"Yes,  he  ought." 

"Did  he  say  hard  things?" 

"Pretty  hard  from  what  I  heard." 

"What?" 

"I  heard  him  tell  Edward  that  he  had 
no  business  here  at  all,  and  he  thought  he 
had  better  go  away." 

"What  did  Edward  say?" 

"That  he  would  stay  here  as  long  as  he 
lived  and  afterward,  too,  if  he  was  a  mind  to, 
and  he  would  like  to  see  Henry  get  him  out ; 
and  then " 

"What?" 

"Then  he  laughed." 

"What  did  Henry  say." 

"I  didn't  hear  him  say  anything,  but " 

"But  what?" 

"I  saw  him  when  he  came  out  of  this 
room." 

"He  looked  mad?" 

"  You've  seen  him  when  he  looked  so." 

Emma  nodded;  the  expression  of  horror 
on  her  face  had  deepened. 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  47 

"Do  you  remember  that  time  he  killed 
the  cat  because  she  had  scratched  him  ?" 

"Yes.     Don't!" 

Then  Caroline  reentered  the  room.  She 
went  up  to  the  stove  in  which  a  wood  fire  was 
burning — it  was  a  cold,  gloomy  day  of  fall 
— and  she  warmed  her  hands,  which  were 
reddened  from  recent  washing  in  cold  water. 

Mrs.  Brigham  looked  at  her  and  hesitated. 
She  glanced  at  the  door,  which  was  still  ajar, 
as  it  did  not  easily  shut,  being  still  swollen 
with  the  damp  weather  of  the  summer.  She 
rose  and  pushed  it  together  with  a  sharp  thud 
which  jarred  the  house.  Rebecca  started 
painfully  with  a  half  exclamation.  Caroline 
looked  at  her  disapprovingly. 

"It  is  time  you  controlled  your  nerves, 
Rebecca,"  said  she. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  replied  Rebecca  with 
almost  a  wail.  "I  am  nervous.  There's 
enough  to  make  me  so,  the  Lord  knows." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that? "asked 
Caroline  with  her  old  air  of  sharp  suspicion, 
and  something  between  challenge  and  dread 
of  its  being  met. 

Rebecca  shrank. 


48  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"Nothing,"  said  she. 

"Then  I  wouldn't  keep  speaking  in  such  a 
fashion." 

Emma,  returning  from  the  closed  door,  said 
imperiously  that  it  ought  to  be  fixed,  it  shut 
so  hard. 

"It  will  shrink  enough  after  we  have  had 
the  fire  a  few  days,"  replied  Caroline.  "If 
anything  is  done  to  it  it  will  be  too  small; 
there  will  be  a  crack  at  the  sill." 

"I  think  Henry  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
himself  for  talking  as  he  did  to  Edward," 
said  Mrs.  Brigham  abruptly,  but  in  an 
almost  inaudible  voice. 

"Hush!"  said  Caroline,  with  a  glance  of 
actual  fear  at  the  closed  door. 

"Nobody  can  hear  with  the  door  shut." 

"He  must  have  heard  it  shut,  and " 

"Well,  I  can  say  what  I  want  to  before  he 
comes  down,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of  him." 

"I  don't  know  who  is  afraid  of  him  !  What 
reason  is  there  for  anybody  to  be  afraid  of 
Henry?"  demanded  Caroline. 

Mrs.  Brigham  trembled  before  her  sister's 
look.  Rebecca  gasped  again.  "There  isn't 
any  reason,  of  course.  Why  should  there  be  ?' ' 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  49 

"I  wouldn't  speak  so,  then.  Somebody 
might  overhear  you  and  think  it  was  queer. 
Miranda  Joy  is  in  the  south  parlour  sewing, 
you  know." 

"I  thought  she  went  upstairs  to  stitch  on 
the  machine." 

"She  did,  but  she  has  come  down  again." 

"Well,  she  can't  hear. 

"  I  say  again  I  think  Henry  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself,  f  shouldn't  think 
he'd  ever  get  over  it,  having  words  with 
poor  Edward  the  very  night  before  he 
died.  Edward  was  enough  sight  better 
disposition  than  Henry,  with  all  his  faults. 
I  always  thought  a  great  deal  of  poor 
Edward,  myself." 

Mrs.  Brigham  passed  a  large  fluff  of  hand 
kerchief  across  her  eyes;  Rebecca  sobbed 
outright. 

"Rebecca,"  said  Caroline  admonishingly, 
keeping  her  mouth  stiff  and  swallowing 
determinately. 

"I  never  heard  him  speak  a  cross  word, 
unless  he  spoke  cross  to  Henry  that  last 
night.  I  don't  know,  but  he  did  from  what 
Rebecca  overheard,"  said  Emma. 


50  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"Not  so  much  cross  as  sort  of  soft,  and 
sweet,  and  aggravating,"  sniffled  Rebecca. 

"He  never  raised  his  voice,"  said  Caroline; 
"but  he  had  his  way." 

"He  had  a  right  to  in  this  case." 

"Yes,  he  did." 

"He  had  as  much  of  a  right  here  as  Henry," 
sobbed  Rebecca,  "and  now  he's  gone,  and  he 
will  never  be  in  this  home  that  poor  father 
left  him  and  the  rest  of  us  again." 

"What  do  you  really  think  ailed  Edward  ?" 
asked  Emma  in  hardly  more  than  a  whisper. 
She  did  not  look  at  her  sister. 

Caroline  sat  down  in  a  nearby  armchair, 
and  clutched  the  arms  convulsively  until  her 
thin  knuckles  whitened. 

"I  told  you,"  said  she. 

Rebecca  held  her  handkerchief  over  her 
mouth,  and  looked  at  them  above  it  with 
terrified,  streaming  eyes. 

"I  know  you  said  that  he  had  terrible 
pains  in  his  stomach,  and  had  spasms,  but 
what  do  you  think  made  him  have  them?" 

"Henry  called  it  gastric  trouble.  You 
know  Edward  has  always  had  dyspepsia." 

Mrs.  Brigham  hesitated  a  moment.     "Was 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  51 

there  any  talk  of  an — examination?"  said 
she. 

Then  Caroline  turned  on  her  fiercely. 

''No,"  said  she  in  a  terrible  voice. 
"No." 

The  three  sisters'  souls  seemed  to  meet  on 
one  common  ground  of  terrified  understand 
ing  through  their  eyes.  The  old-fashioned 
latch  of  the  door  was  heard  to  rattle,  and  a 
push  from  without  made  the  door  shake 
ineffectually.  "It's  Henry,"  Rebecca  sighed 
rather  than  whispered.  Mrs.  Brigham  set 
tled  herself  after  a  noiseless  rush  across  the 
floor  into  her  rocking-chair  again,  and  was 
swaying  back  and  forth  with  her  head  com 
fortably  leaning  back,  when  the  door  at 
last  yielded  and  Henry  Glynn  entered.  He 
cast  a  covertly  sharp,  comprehensive  glance 
at  Mrs.  Brigham  with  her  elaborate  calm; 
at  Rebecca  quietly  huddled  in  the  corner  of 
the  sofa  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  face 
and  only  one  small  reddened  ear  as  attentive 
as  a  dog's  uncovered  and  revealing  her 
alertness  for  his  presence ;  at  Caroline  sitting 
with  a  strained  composure  in  her  armchair 
by  the  stove.  She  met  his  eyes  quite  firmly 


52  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

with  a  look  of  inscrutable  fear,  and  defiance 
of  the  fear  and  of  him. 

Henry  Glynn  looked  more  like  this  sister 
than  the  others.  Both  had  the  same  hard 
delicacy  of  form  and  feature,  both  were  tall 
and  almost  emaciated,  both  had  a  sparse 
growth  of  gray  blond  hair  far  back  from 
high  intellectual  foreheads,  both  had  an 
almost  noble  aquilinity  of  feature.  They 
confronted  each  other  with  the  pitiless 
immovability  of  two  statues  in  whose  marble 
lineaments  emotions  were  fixed  for  all 
eternity. 

Then  Henry  Glynn  smiled  and  the  smile 
transformed  his  face.  He  looked  suddenly 
years  younger,  and  an  almost  boyish  reck 
lessness  and  irresolution  appeared  in  his  face. 
He  flung  himself  into  a  chair  with  a  gesture 
which  was  bewildering  from  its  incongruity 
with  his  general  appearance.  He  leaned 
his  head  back,  flung  one  leg  over  the 
other,  and  looked  laughingly  at  Mrs. 
Brigham. 

"I  declare,  Emma,  you  grow  younger  every 
year,"  he  said. 

She  flushed  a  little,  and  her  placid  mouth 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  53 

widened  at  the  corners.  She  was  susceptible 
to  praise. 

"Our  thoughts  to-day  ought  to  belong  to 
the  one  of  us  who  will  never  grow  older,"  said 
Caroline  in  a  hard  voice. 

Henry  looked  at  her,  still  smiling.  "Of 
course,  we  none  of  us  forget  that,"  said  he,  in 
a  deep,  gentle  voice,  "but  we  have  to  speak  to 
the  living,  Caroline,  and  I  have  not  seen 
Emma  for  a  long  time,  and  the  living  are  as 
dear  as  the  dead." 

"Not  to  me,"'  said  Caroline. 

She  rose,  and  went  abruptly  out  of  the 
room  again.  Rebecca  also  rose  and  hurried 
after  her,  sobbing  loudly. 

Henry  looked  slowly  after  them. 

"Caroline  is  completely  unstrung,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Brigham  rocked.  A  confidence  in 
him  inspired  by  his  manner  was  stealing  over 
her.  Out  of  that  confidence  she  spoke  quite 
easily  and  naturally. 

"His  death  was  very  sudden,"  said  she. 

Henry's  eyelids  quivered  slightly  but  his 
gaze  was  unswerving. 

"Yes,"  said  he;  "it  was  very  sudden.  He 
was  sick  only  a  few  hours." 


54  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"What  did  you  call  it?" 

"Gastric." 

"You  did  not  think  of  an  examination  ?" 

"There  was  no  need.  I  am  perfectly 
certain  as  to  the  cause  of  his  death." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Brigham  felt  a  creep  as  of 
some  live  horror  over  her  very  soul.  Her 
flesh  prickled  with  cold,  before  an  inflection 
of  his  voice.  She  rose,  tottering  on  weak 
knees. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Henry  in  a 
strange,  breathless  voice. 

Mrs.  Brigham  said  something  incoherent 
about  some  sewing  which  she  had  to  do,  some 
black  for  the  funeral,  and  was  out  of  the  room. 
She  went  up  to  the  front  chamber  which  she 
occupied.  Caroline  was  there.  She  went 
close  to  her  and  took  her  hands,  and  the  two 
sisters  looked  at  each  other. 

"Don't  speak,  don't,  I  won't  have  it!" 
said  Caroline  finally  in  an  awful  whisper. 

"I  v/on't,"  replied  Emma. 

That  afternoon  the  three  sisters  were  in 
the  study,  the  large  front  room  on  the 
ground  floor  across  the  hall  from  the  south 
parlour,  when  the  dusk  deepened. 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  55 

Mrs.  Brigham  was  hemming  some  black 
material.  She  sat  close  to  the  west  window 
for  the  waning  light.  At  last  she  laid  her 
work  on  her  lap. 

"It's  no  use,  I  cannot  see  to  sew  another 
stitch  until  we  have  a  light,"  said  she. 

Caroline,  who  was  writing  some  letters  at 
the  table,  turned  to  Rebecca,  in  her  usual 
place  on  the  sofa. 

"Rebecca,  you  had  better  get  a  lamp," 
she  said. 

Rebecca  started  up;  even  in  the  dusk  her 
face  showed  her  agitation. 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  we  need  a 
lamp  quite  yet,"  she  said  in  a  piteous,  plead 
ing  voice  like  a  child's. 

"Yes,  we  do,"  returned  Mrs.  Brigham 
peremptorily.  "We  must  have  a  light. 
I  must  finish  this  to-night  or  I  can't  go  to  the 
funeral,  and  I  can't  see  to  sew  another 
stitch." 

"Caroline  can  see  to  write  letters,  and  she 
is  farther  from  the  window  than  you  are," 
said  Rebecca. 

"Are  you  trying  to  save  kerosene  or  are 
you  lazy,  Rebecca  Glynn?"  cried  Mrs. 


56  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Brigham.  ' '  I  can  go  and  get  the  light  myself, 
but  I  have  this  work  all  in  my  lap." 

Caroline's  pen  stopped  scratching. 

"Rebecca,  we  must  have  the  light,'*  said 
she. 

"Had  we  better  have  it  in  here?"  asked 
Rebecca  weakly 

"Of  course!  Why  not?"  cried  Caroline 
sternly. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to  take  my  sewing 
into  the  other  room,  when  it  is  all  cleaned 
up  for  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Brigham. 

"Why,  I  never  heard  such  a  to-do  about 
lighting  a  lamp." 

Rebecca  rose  and  left  the  room.  Presently 
she  entered  with  a  lamp — a  large  one  with  a 
white  porcelain  shade.  She  set  it  on  a  table, 
an  old-fashioned  card-table  which  was  placed 
against  the  opposite  wall  from  the  window. 
That  wall  was  clear  of  bookcases  and  books, 
which  were  only  on  three  sides  of  the  room. 
That  opposite  wall  was  taken  up  with  three 
doors,  the  one  small  space  being  occupied 
by  the  table.  Above  the  table  on  the  old- 
fashioned  ,  paper,  of  a  white  satin  gloss, 
traversed  by  an  indeterminate  green  scroll, 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  57 

hung  quite  high  a  small  gilt  and  black- 
framed  ivory  miniature  taken  in  her  girlhood 
of  the  mother  of  the  family.  When  the  lamp 
was  set  on  the  table  beneath  it,  the  tiny 
pretty  face  painted  on  the  ivory  seemed  to 
gleam  out  with  a  look  of  intelligence. 

"What  have  you  put  that  lamp  over  there 
for?"  asked  Mrs.  Brigham,  with  more  of 
impatience  than  her  voice  usually  revealed. 
"Why  didn't  you  set  it  in  the  hall  and  have 
done  with  it.  Neither  Caroline  nor  I  can  see 
if  it  is  on  that  table." 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  would  move," 
replied  Rebecca  hoarsely. 

"If  I  do  move,  we  can't  both  sit  at  that 
table.  Caroline  has  her  paper  all  spread 
around.  Why  don't  you  set  the  lamp  on  the 
study  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  then 
we  can  both  see  ?" 

Rebecca  hesitated.  Her  face  was  very 
pale.  She  looked  with  an  appeal  that  was 
fairly  agonizing  at  her  sister  Caroline. 

"Why  don't  you  put  the  lamp  on  this 
table,  as  she  says?"  asked  Caroline,  almost 
fiercely.  "Why  do  you  act  so,  Rebecca  ?" 

"I  should  think  you  would  ask  her  that," 


58  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

said  Mrs.  Brigham.  "She  doesn't  act  like 
herself  at  all." 

Rebecca  took  the  lamp  and  set  it  on  the 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  without 
another  word.  Then  she  turned  her  back 
upon  it  quickly  and  seated  herself  on  the 
sofa,  and  placed  a  hand  over  her  eyes  as  if  to 
shade  them,  and  remained  so. 

"Does  the  light  hurt  your  eyes,  and  is  that 
the  reason  why  you  didn't  want  the  lamp?" 
asked  Mrs.  Brigham  kindly. 

"I  always  like  to  sit  in  the  dark,"  replied 
Rebecca  chokingly.  Then  she  snatched  her 
handkerchief  hastily  from  her  pocket  and 
began  to  weep.  Caroline  continued  to  write, 
Mrs.  Brigham  to  sew. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Brigham  as  she  sewed 
glanced  at  the  opposite  wall.  The  glance 
became  a  steady  stare.  She  looked  intently, 
her  work  suspended  in  her  hands.  Then  she 
looked  away  again  and  took  a  few  more 
stitches,  then  she  looked  again,  and  again 
turned  to  her  task.  At  last  she  laid  her  work 
in  her  lap  and  stared  concentratedly.  She 
looked  from  the  wall  around  the  room,  taking 
note  of  the  various  objects ;  she  looked  at  the 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  59 

wall  long  and  intently.  Then  she  turned  to 
her  sisters. 

"What  is  that  ?"  said  she. 

"What?"  asked  Caroline  harshly;  her  pen 
scratched  loudly  across  the  paper. 

Rebecca  gave  one  of  her  convulsive  gasps. 

"That  strange  shadow  on  the  wall,"  replied 
Mrs.  Brigham. 

Rebecca  sat  with  her  face  hidden :  Caroline 
dipped  her  pen  in  the  inkstand. 

"Why  don't  you  turn  around  and  look?" 
asked  Mrs.  Brigham  in  a  wondering  and 
somewhat  aggrieved  way. 

"I  am  in  a  hurry  to  finish  this  letter,  if 
Mrs.  Wilson  Ebbit  is  going  to  get  word  in 
time  to  come  to  the  funeral,"  replied  Caroline 
shortly. 

Mrs.  Brigham  rose,  her  work  slipping  to 
the  floor,  and  she  began  walking  around  the 
room,  moving  various  articles  of  furniture, 
with  her  eyes  on  the  shadow. 

Then  suddenly  she  shrieked  out : 

"Look  at  this  awful  shadow !  What  is 
it  ?  Caroline,  look,  look !  Rebecca,  look ! 
What  is  it?" 

All  Mrs.  Brigham's  triumphant  placidity 


60  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

was  gone.  Her  handsome  face  was  livid 
with  horror.  She  stood  stiffly  pointing  at 
the  shadow. 

"Look  !"  said  she,  pointing  her  finger  at  it. 
"Look!  What  is  it?" 

Then  Rebecca  burst  out  in  a  wild  wail 
after  a  shuddering  glance  at  the  wall : 

"Oh,  Caroline,  there  it  is  again  !  There  it  is 
again !" 

"Caroline  Glynn,  you  look  1"  said  Mrs. 
Brigham.  "Look!  What  is  that  dreadful 
shadow?" 

Caroline  rose,  turned,  and  stood  con 
fronting  the  wall. 

"How  should  I  know?"  she  said. 

"It  has  been  there  every  night  since  he 
died,"  cried  Rebecca. 

"Every  night?" 

"Yes.  He  died  Thursday  and  this  is 
Saturday;  that  makes  three  nights,"  said 
Caroline  rigidly.  She  stood  as  if  holding 
herself  calm  with  a  vise  of  concentrated  will. 

"It — it  looks  like — like "  stammered 

Mrs.  Brigham  in  a  tone  of  intense  horror. 

"I  know  what  it  looks  like  well  enough," 
said  Caroline.  "I've  got  eyes  in  my  head. ' ' 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  61 

"It  looks  like  Edward,"  burst  out  Rebecca 
in  a  sort  of  frenzy  of  fear.  "Only— 

"Yes,  it  does,"  assented  Mrs.  Brigham, 
whose  horror-stricken  tone  matched  her 

sister's,  "only Oh,  it  is  awful !  What 

is  it,  Caroline?" 

"I  ask  you  again,  how  should  I  know?" 
replied  Caroline.  "I  see  it  there  like 
you.  How  should  I  know  any  more  than 
you?" 

"It  must  be  something  in  the  room,"  said 
Mrs.  Brigham,  staring  wildly  around. 

"We  moved  everything  in  the  room  the 
first  night  it  came,"  said  Rebecca;  "it  is  not 
anything  in  the  room." 

Caroline  turned  upon  her  with  a  sort  of 
fury.  "Of  course  it  is  something  in  the 
room,"  said  she.  "How  you  act !  What  do 
you  mean  by  talking  so?  Of  course  it  is 
something  in  the  room." 

"Of  course,  it  is,"  agreed  Mrs.  Brigham, 
looking  at  Caroline  suspiciously.  "Of  course 
it  must  be.  It  is  only  a  coincidence.  It  just 
happens  so.  Perhaps  it  is  that  fold  of  the 
window  curtain  that  makes  it.  It  must  be 
something  in  the  room." 


62  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"  It  is  not  anything  in  the  room, "  repeated 
Rebecca  with  obstinate  horror. 

The  door  opened  suddenly  and  Henry 
Glynn  entered.  He  began  to  speak,  then 
his  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  the  others'. 
He  stood  stock  still  staring  at  the  shadow 
on  the  wall.  It  was  life  size  and  stretched 
across  the  white  parallelogram  of  a  door,  half 
across  the  wall  space  on  which  the  picture 
hung. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  he  demanded  in  a  strange 
voice. 

"It  must  be  due  to  something  in  the  room," 
Mrs.  Brigham  said  faintly. 

"It  is  not  due  to  anything  in  the  room," 
said  Rebecca  again  with  the  shrill  insistency 
of  terror. 

"How  you  act,  Rebecca  Glynn,"  said 
Caroline. 

Henry  Glynn  stood  and  stared  a  moment 
longer.  His  face  showed  a  gamut  of  emotions 
—horror,  conviction,  then  furious  incredulity. 
Suddenly  he  began  hastening  hither  and 
thither  about  the  room.  He  moved  the 
furniture  with  fierce  jerks,  turning  ever 
to  see  the  effect  upon  the  shadow  on 


"  '  What  is  that  ? '  he  demanded  in  a  strange  voice  " 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  63 

the  wall.  Not  a  line  of  its  terrible  outlines 
wavered. 

"It  must  be  something  in  the  room !" 
he  declared  in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  snap 
like  a  lash. 

His  face  changed.  The  inmost  secrecy 
of  his  nature  seemed  evident  until 
one  almost  lost  sight  of  his  lineaments. 
Rebecca  stood  close  to  her  sofa,  regarding 
him  with  woeful,  fascinated  eyes.  Mrs. 
Brigham  clutched  Caroline's  hand.  They 
both  stood  in  a  corner  out  of  his  way.  For 
a  few  moments  he  raged  about  the  room 
like  a  caged  wild  animal.  He  moved  every 
piece  of  furniture;  when  the  moving  of  a 
piece  did  not  affect  the  shadow,  he  flung  it 
to  the  floor,  the  sisters  watching. 

Then  suddenly  he  desisted.  He  laughed 
and  began  straightening  the  furniture  which 
he  had  flung  down. 

"What  an  absurdity,"  he  said  easily. 
"Such  a  to-do  about  a  shadow." 

"That's  so,"  assented  Mrs.  Brigham,  in 
a  scared  voice  which  she  tried  to  make 
natural.  As  she  spoke  she  lifted  a  chair 
near  her. 


64  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"I  think  you  have  broken  the  chair  that 
Edward  was  so  fond  of,"  said  Caroline. 

Terror  and  wrath  were  struggling  for 
expression  on  her  face.  Her  mouth  was 
set,  her  eyes  shrinking.  Henry  lifted  the 
chair  with  a  show  of  anxiety. 

"Just  as  good  as  ever,"  he  said  pleasantly. 
He  laughed  again,  looking  at  his  sisters. 
"Did  I  scare  you  ?"  he  said.  "I  should  think 
you  might  be  used  to  me  by  this  time.  You 
know  my  way  of  wanting  to  leap  to  the 
bottom  of  a  mystery,  and  that  shadow  does 
look — queer,  like — and  I  thought  if  there 
was  any  way  of  accounting  for  it  I  would 
like  to  without  any  delay." 

"You  don't  seem  to  have  succeeded," 
remarked  Caroline  dryly,  with  a  slight  glance 
at  the  wall. 

Henry's  eyes  followed  hers  and  he  quiv 
ered  perceptibly. 

"Oh,  there  is  no  accounting  for  shadows," 
he  said,  and  he  laughed  again.  "A  man  is  a 
fool  to  try  to  account  for  shadows." 

Then  the  supper  bell  rang,  and  they  all  left 
the  room,  but  Henry  kept  his  back  to  the 
wall,  as  did,  indeed,  the  others. 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  65 

Mrs.  Brigham  pressed  close  to  Caroline  as 
she  crossed  the  hall.  "He  looked  like  a 
demon  !"  she  breathed  in  her  ear. 

Henry  led  the  way  with  an  alert  motion 
like  a  boy ;  Rebecca  brought  up  the  rear ;  she 
could  scarcely  walk,  her  knees  trembled  so. 

"I  can't  sit  in  that  room  again  this  even 
ing,"  she  whispered  to  Caroline  after  supper. 

"Very  well,  we  will  sit  in  the  south  room," 
replied  Caroline.  "I  think  we  will  sit  in  the 
south  parlour,"  she  said  aloud;  "it  isn't  as 
damp  as  the  study,  and  I  have  a  cold." 

So  they  all  sat  in  the  south  room  with  their 
sewing.  Henry  read  the  newspaper,  his 
chair  drawn  close  to  the  lamp  on  the  table. 
About  nine  o'clock  he  rose  abruptly  and 
crossed  the  hall  to  the  study.  The  three 
sisters  looked  at  one  another.  Mrs.  Brigham 
rose,  folded  her  rustling  skirts  compactly 
around  her,  and  began  tiptoeing  toward  the 
door. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  inquired 
Rebecca  agitatedly. 

"I  am  going  to  see  what  he  is  about," 
replied  Mrs.  Brigham  cautiously. 

She  pointed  as  she  spoke  to  the  study  door 


66  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

across  the  hall  ;  it  was  ajar.  Henry  had 
striven  to  pull  it  together  behind  him,  but  it 
had  somehow  swollen  beyond  the  limit  with 
curious  speed.  It  was  still  ajar  and  a  streak 
of  light  showed  from  top  to  bottom.  The 
hall  lamp  was  not  lit. 

"You  had  better  stay  where  you  are,"  said 
Caroline  with  guarded  sharpness. 

"I  am  going  to  see,"  repeated  Mrs.  Brigham 
firmly. 

Then  she  folded  her  skirts  so  tightly 
that  her  bulk  with  its  swelling  curves  was 
revealed  in  a  black  silk  sheath,  and  she 
went  with  a  slow  toddle  across  the  hall  to 
the  study  door.  She  stood  there,  her  eye  at 
the  crack. 

In  the  south  room  Rebecca  stopped  sewing 
and  sat  watching  with  dilated  eyes.  Caroline 
sewed  steadily.  What  Mrs.  Brigham,  stand 
ing  at  the  crack  in  the  study  door,  saw  was 
this: 

Henry  Glynn,  evidently  reasoning  that  the 
source  of  the  strange  shadow  must  be  between 
the  table  on  which  the  lamp  stood  and  the 
wall,  was  making  systematic  passes  and 
thrusts  all  over  and  through  the  intervening 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  67 

space  with  an  old  sword  which  had  belonged 
to  his  father.  Not  an  inch  was  left  unpierced. 
He  seemed  to  have  divided  the  space  into 
mathematical  sections.  He  brandished  the 
sword  with  a  sort  of  cold  fury  and  calculation ; 
the  blade  gave  out  flashes  of  light,  the  shadow 
remained  unmoved.  Mrs.  Brigham,  watch 
ing,  felt  herself  cold  with  horror. 

Finally  Henry  ceased  and  stood  with  the 
sword  in  hand  and  raised  as  if  to  strike, 
surveying  the  shadow  on  the  wall  threat 
eningly.  Mrs.  Brigham  toddled  back  across  the 
hall  and  shut  the  south  room  door  behind 
her  before  she  related  what  she  had  seen. 

"He  looked  like  a  demon  !"  she  said  again. 
"Have  you  got  any  of  that  old  wine  in  the 
house,  Caroline?  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could 
stand  much  more." 

Indeed,  she  looked  overcome.  Her  hand 
some  placid  face  was  worn  and  strained  and 
pale. 

"Yes,  there's  plenty,"  said  Caroline;  "you 
can  have  some  when  you  go  to  bed." 

"I  think  we  had  all  better  take  some," 
said  Mrs.  Brigham.  "Oh,  my  God,  Caroline, 
what—" 


68  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"Don't  ask  and  don't  speak,"  said  Caroline. 

"No,  I  am  not  going  to,"  replied  Mrs. 
Brigham;  "but " 

Rebecca  moaned  aloud. 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for?"  asked 
Caroline  harshly. 

"Poor  Edward,"  returned  Rebecca. 

"That  is  all  you  have  to  groan  for,"  said 
Caroline.  "There  is  nothing  else." 

"I  am  going  to  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Brigham. 
"I  sha'n't  be  able  to  be  at  the  funeral  if  I 
don't." 

Soon  the  three  sisters  went  to  their  cham 
bers  and  the  south  parlour  was  deserted. 
Caroline  called  to  Henry  in  the  study  to 
put  out  the  light  before  he  came  upstairs. 
They  had  been  gone  about  an  hour  when  he 
came  into  the  room  bringing  the  lamp 
which  had  stood  in  the  study.  He  set  it  on 
the  table  and  waited  a  few  minutes,  pacing 
up  and  down.  His  face  was  terrible,  his  fair 
complexion  showed  livid;  his  blue  eyes 
seemed  dark  blanks  of  awful  reflections. 

Then  he  took  the  lamp  up  and  returned  to 
the  library.  He  set  the  lamp  on  the  centre 
table,  and  the  shadow  sprang  out  on  the  wall. 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  69 

Again  he  studied  the  furniture  and  moved  it 
about,  but  deliberately,  with  none  of  his 
former  frenzy.  Nothing  affected  the  shadow. 
Then  he  returned  to  the  south  room  with  the 
lamp  and  again  waited.  Again  he  returned 
to  the  study  and  placed  the  lamp  on  the 
table,  and  the  shadow  sprang  out  upon  the 
wall.  It  was  midnight  before  he  went  up 
stairs.  Mrs.  Brigham  and  the  other  sisters, 
who  could  not  sleep,  heard  him. 

The  next  day  was  the  funeral.  That 
evening  the  family  sat  in  the  south  room. 
Some  relatives  were  with  them.  Nobody 
entered  the  study  until  Henry  carried  a  lamp 
in  there  after  the  others  had  retired  for  the 
night.  He  saw  again  the  shadow  on  the 
wall  leap  to  an  awful  life  before  the  light. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  Henry 
Glynn  announced  that  he  had  to  go  to  the 
city  for  three  days.  The  sisters  looked  at 
him  with  surprise.  He  very  seldom  left 
home,  and  just  now  his  practice  had  been 
neglected  on  account  of  Edward's  death. 
He  was  a  physician. 

"How  can  you  leave  your  patients  now?" 
asked  Mrs.  Brigham  wonderingly. 


70  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"I  don't  know  how  to,  but  there  is  no  other 
way,"  replied  Henry  easily.  "I  have  had 
a  telegram  from  Doctor  Mitford." 

"Consultation?"  inquired  Mrs.  Brigham. 

"I  have  business,"  replied  Henry. 

Doctor  Mitford  was  an  old  classmate  of 
his  who  lived  in  a  neighbouring  city  and 
who  occasionally  called  upon  him  in  the 
case  of  a  consultation. 

After  he  had  gone  Mrs.  Brigham  said  to 
Caroline  that  after  all  Henry  had  not  said 
that  he  was  going  to  consult  with  Doctor 
Mitford,  and  she  thought  it  very  strange. 

"Everything  is  very  strange,"  said  Rebecca 
with  a  shudder. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  Caroline 
sharply. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Rebecca. 

Nobody  entered  the  library  that  day,  nor 
the  next,  nor  the  next.  The  third  day 
Henry  was  expected  home,  but  he  did  not 
arrive  and  the  last  train  from  the  city  had 
come. 

"I  call  it  pretty  queer  work,"  said  Mrs. 
Brigham.  "The  idea  of  a  doctor  leaving 
his  patients  for  three  days  anyhow,  at  such  a 


The  Shadows  on  the  Wall  71 

time  as  this,  and  I  know  he  has  some  very 
sick  ones;  he  said  so.  And  the  idea  of  a 
consultation  lasting  three  days !  There  is 
no  sense  in  it,  and  now  he  has  not  come.  I 
don't  understand  it,  for  my  part." 

"I  don't  either,"  said  Rebecca. 

They  were  all  in  the  south  parlour.  There 
was  no  light  in  the  study  opposite,  and  the 
door  was  ajar. 

Presently  Mrs.  Brigham  rose — she  could 
not  have  told  why;  something  seemed  to 
impel  her,  some  will  outside  her  own.  She 
went  out  of  the  room,  again  wrapping  her 
rustling  skirts  around  that  she  might  pass 
noiselessly,  and  began  pushing  at  the  swollen 
door  of  the  study. 

"She  has  not  got  any  lamp,"  said  Rebecca 
in  a  shaking  voice. 

Caroline,  who  was  writing  letters,  rose 
again,  took  a  lamp  (there  were  two  in  the 
room)  and  followed  her  sister.  Rebecca  had 
risen,  but  she  stood  trembling,  not  venturing 
to  follow. 

The  doorbell  rang,  but  the  others  did  not 
hear  it ;  it  was  on  the  south  door  on  the  other 
side  of  the  house  from  the  study.  Rebecca, 


72  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

after  hesitating  until  the  bell  rang  the  second 
time,  went  to  the  door ;  she  remembered  that 
the  servant  was  out. 

Caroline  and  her  sister  Emma  entered  the 
study.  Caroline  set  the  lamp  on  the  table. 
They  looked  at  the  wall.  "Oh,  my  God," 
gasped  Mrs.  Brigham,  "there  are — there  are 
two— shadows."  The  sisters  stood  clutching 
each  other,  staring  at  the  awful  things  on  the 
wall.  Then  Rebecca  came  in,  staggering, 
with  a  telegram  in  her  hand.  "Here  is — a 
telegram,"  she  gasped.  "Henry  is — dead." 


LUELLA   MILLER 


LUELLA   MILLER 

CLOSE  to  the  village  street  stood 
the  one-story  house  in  which  Luella 
Miller,  who  had  an  evil  name  in  the 
village,  had  dwelt.  She  had  been  dead  for 
years,  yet  there  were  those  in  the  village  who, 
in  spite  of  the  clearer  light  which  comes  on 
a  vantage-point  from  a  long-past  danger, 
half  believed  in  the  tale  which  they  had 
heard  from  their  childhood.  In  their  hearts, 
although  they  scarcely  would  have  owned  it, 
was  a  survival  of  the  wild  horror  and  frenzied 
fear  of  their  ancestors  who  had  dwelt  in  the 
same  age  with  Luella  Miller.  Young  people 
even  would  stare  with  a  shudder  at  the  old 
house  as  they  passed,  and  children  never 
played  around  it  as  was  their  wont  around 
an  untenanted  building.  Not  a  window  in 
the  old  Miller  house  was  broken:  the  panes 
reflected  the  morning  sunlight  in  patches  of 
emerald  and  blue,  and  the  latch  of  the  sagging 
front  door  was  never  lifted,  although  no  bolt 
75 


7  6  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

secured  it.  Since  Luella  Miller  had  been 
carried  out  of  it,  the  house  had  had  no  tenant 
except  one  friendless  old  soul  who  had  no 
choice  between  that  and  the  far-off  shelter 
of  the  open  sky.  This  old  woman,  who  had 
survived  her  kindred  and  friends,  lived  in  the 
house  one  week,  then  one  morning  no  smoke 
came  out  of  the  chimney,  and  a  body  of 
neighbours,  a  score  strong,  entered  and 
found  her  dead  in  her  bed.  There  were  dark 
whispers  as  to  the  cause  of  her  death,  and 
there  were  those  who  testified  to  an  expres 
sion  of  fear  so  exalted  that  it  showed  forth 
the  state  of  the  departing  soul  upon  the  dead 
face.  The  old  woman  had  been  hale  and 
hearty  when  she  entered  the  house,  and  in 
seven  days  she  was  dead ;  it  seemed  that  she 
had  fallen  a  victim  to  some  uncanny  power. 
The  minister  talked  in  the  pulpit  with  covert 
severity  against  the  sin  of  superstition;  still 
the  belief  prevailed.  Not  a  soul  in  the  village 
but  would  have  chosen  the  almshouse  rather 
than  that  dwelling.  No  vagrant,  if  he 
heard  the  tale,  would  seek  shelter  beneath 
that  old  roof,  unhallowed  by  nearly  half  a 
century  of  superstitious  fear. 


Luella  Miller  77 

There  was  only  one  person  in  the  village 
who  had  actually  known  Luella  Miller. 
That  person  was  a  woman  well  over  eighty, 
but  a  marvel  of  vitality  and  unextinct  youth. 
Straight  as  an  arrow,  with  the  spring  of  one 
recently  let  loose  from  the  bow  of  life,  she 
moved  about  the  streets,  and  she  always 
went  to  church,  rain  or  shine.  She  had  never 
married,  and  had  lived  alone  for  years  in  a 
house  across  the  road  from  Luella  Miller's. 

This  woman  had  none  of  the  garrulousness 
of  age,  but  never  in  all  her  life  had  she  ever 
held  her  tongue  for  any  will  save  her  own, 
and  she  never  spared  the  truth  when  she 
essayed  to  present  it.  She  it  was  who  bore 
testimony  to  the  life,  evil,  though  possibly 
wittingly  or  designedly  so,  of  Luella  Miller, 
and  to  her  personal  appearance.  When  this 
old  woman  spoke — and  she  had  the  gift  of 
description,  although  her  thoughts  were 
clothed  in  the  rude  vernacular  of  her  native 
village — one  could  seem  to  see  Luella  Miller 
as  she  had  really  looked.  According  to  this 
woman,  Lydia  Anderson  by  name,  Luella 
Miller  had  been  a  beauty  of  a  type  rather 
unusual  in  New  England.  She  had  been  a 


7  8  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

slight,  pliant  sort  of  creature,  as  ready  with 
a  strong  yielding  to  fate  and  as  unbreakable 
as  a  willow.  She  had  glimmering  lengths  of 
straight,  fair  hair,  which  she  wore  softly 
looped  round  a  long,  lovely  face.  She  had 
blue  eyes  full  of  soft  pleading,  little  slender, 
clinging  hands,  and  a  wonderful  grace  of 
motion  and  attitude. 

"  Luella  Miller  used  to  sit  in  a  way  nobody 
else  could  if  they  sat  up  and  studied  a  week 
of  Sundays,"  said  Lydia  Anderson,  "and  it 
was  a  sight  to  see  her  walk.  If  one  of 
them  willows  over  there  on  the  edge 
of  the  brook  could  start  up  and  get  its 
roots  free  of  the  ground,  and  move  off,  it 
would  go  just  the  way  Luella  Miller  used 
to.  She  had  a  green  shot  silk  she  used  to 
wear,  too,  and  a  hat  with  green  ribbon 
streamers,  and  a  lace  veil  blowing  across  her 
face  and  out  sideways,  and  a  green  ribbon 
flyin'  from  her  waist.  That  was  what  she 
came  out  bride  in  when  she  married  Erastus 
Miller.  Her  name  before  she  was  married 
was  Hill.  There  was  always  a  sight  of  "1's" 
in  her  name,  married  or  single.  Erastus 
Miller  was  good  lookin',  too,  better  lookin' 


Luella  Miller  79 

than  Luella.  Sometimes  I  used  to  think 
that  Luella  wa'n't  so  handsome  after  all. 
Erastus  just  about  worshiped  her.  I  used 
to  know  him  pretty  well.  He  lived  next 
door  to  me,  and  we  went  to  school  together. 
Folks  used  to  say  he  was  waitin'  on  me,  but 
he  wa'n't.  I  never  thought  he  was  except 
once  or  twice  when  he  said  things  that  some 
girls  might  have  suspected  meant  somethin*. 
That  was  before  Luella  came  here  to  teach 
the  district  school.  It  was  funny  how  she 
came  to  get  it,  for  folks  said  she  hadn't  any 
education,  and  that  one  of  the  big  girls, 
Lottie  Henderson,  used  to  do  all  the  teachin' 
for  her,  while  she  sat  back  and  did  embroidery 
work  on  a  cambric  pocket-handkerchief. 
Lottie  Henderson  was  a  real  smart  girl,  a 
splendid  scholar,  and  she  just  set  her  eyes  by 
Luella,  as  all  the  girls  did.  Lottie  would 
have  made  a  real  smart  woman,  but  she  died 
when  Luella  had  been  here  about  a  year — just 
faded  away  and  died:  nobody  knew  what 
aided  her.  She  dragged  herself  to  that 
schoolhouse  and  helped  Luella  teach  till  the 
very  last  minute.  The  committee  all  knew 
how  Luella  didn't  do  much  of  the  work  her- 


8o  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

self,  but  they  winked  at  it.  It  wa'n't  long 
after  Lottie  died  that  Erastus  married  her. 
I  always  thought  he  hurried  it  up  because 
she  wa'n't  fit  to  teach.  One  of  the  big  boys 
used  to  help  her  after  Lottie  died,  but  he 
hadn't  much  government,  and  the  school 
didn't  do  very  well,  and  Luella  might  have 
had  to  give  it  up,  for  the  committee  couldn't 
have  shut  their  eyes  to  things  much  longer. 
The  boy  that  helped  her  was  a  real  honest, 
innocent  sort  of  fellow,  and  he  was  a  good 
scholar,  too.  Folks  said  he  overstudied,  and 
that  was  the  reason  he  was  took  crazy  the 
year  after  Luella  married,  but  I  don't  know. 
And  I  don't  know  what  made  Erastus  Miller 
go  into  consumption  of  the  blood  the  year 
after  he  was  married:  consumption  wa'n't  in 
his  family.  He  just  grew  weaker  and  weaker, 
and  went  almost  bent  double  when  he  tried 
to  wait  on  Luella,  and  he  spoke  feeble,  like 
an  old  man.  He  worked  terrible  hard  till 
the  last  trying  to  save  up  a  little  to  leave 
Luella.  I've  seen  him  out  in  the  worst 
storms  on  a  wood-sled — he  used  to  cut  and 
sell  wood — and  he  was  hunched  up  on  top 
lookin'  more  dead  than  alive.  Once  I 


Luella  Miller  Si 

couldn't  stand  it:  I  went  over  and  helped 
him  pitch  some  wood  on  the  cart — I  was 
always  strong  in  my  arms.  I  wouldn't  stop 
for  all  he  told  me  to,  and  I  guess  he  was  glad 
enough  for  the  help.  That  was  only  a  week 
before  he  died.  He  fell  on  the  kitchen  floor 
while  he  was  gettin'  breakfast.  He  always 
got  the  breakfast  and  let  Luella  lay  abed. 
He  did  all  the  sweepin'  and  the  washin'  and 
the  ironin'  and  most  of  the  cookin'.  He 
couldn't  bear  to  have  Luella  lift  her  finger, 
and  she  let  him  do  for  her.  She  lived  like  a 
queen  for  all  the  work  she  did.  She  didn't 
even  do  her  sewin'.  She  said  it  made  her 
shoulder  ache  to  sew,  and  poor  Erastus's 
sister  Lily  used  to  do  all  her  sewin'.  She 
wa'n't  able  to,  either;  she  was  never  strong 
in  her  back,  but  she  did  it  beautifully.  She 
had  to,  to  suit  Luella,  she  was  so  dreadful 
particular.  I  never  saw  anythin'  like  the 
fagottin'  and  hemstitchin'  that  Lily  Miller 
did  for  Luella.  She  made  all  Luella's 
weddin'  outfit,  and  that  green  silk  dress, 
after  Maria  Babbit  cut  it.  Maria  she  cut  it 
for  nothin',  and  she  did  a  lot  more  cuttin'  and 
fittin'  for  nothin'  for  Luella,  too.  Lily  Miller 


82  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

went  to  live  with  Luella  after  Erastus  died. 
She  gave  up  her  home,  though  she  was  real 
attached  to  it  and  wa'n't  a  mite  afraid  to 
stay  alone.  She  rented  it  and  she  went  to 
live  with  Luella  right  away  after  the  funeral." 
Then  this  old  woman,  Lydia  Anderson, 
who  remembered  Luella  Miller,  would  go  on 
to  relate  the  story  of  Lily  Miller.  It  seemed 
that  on  the  removal  of  Lily  Miller  to  the 
house  of  her  dead  brother,  to  live  with  his 
widow,  the  village  people  first  began  to  talk. 
This  Lily  Miller  had  been  hardly  past  her 
first  youth,  and  a  most  robust  and  blooming 
woman,  rosy-cheeked,  with  curls  of  strong, 
black  hair  overshadowing  round,  candid 
temples  and  bright  dark  eyes.  It  was  not 
six  months  after  she  had  taken  up  her  resi 
dence  with  her  sister-in-law  that  her  rosy 
colour  faded  and  her  pretty  curves  became 
wan  hollows.  White  shadows  began  to  show 
in  the  black  rings  of  her  hair,  and  the  light 
died  out  of  her  eyes,  her  features  sharpened, 
and  there  were  pathetic  lines  at  her  mouth, 
which  yet  wore  always  an  expression  of  utter 
sweetness  and  even  happiness.  She  was 
devoted  to  her  sister;  there  was  no  doubt 


Luella  Miller  83 

that  she  loved  her  with  her  whole  heart,  and 
was  perfectly  content  in  her  service.  It 
was  her  sole  anxiety  lest  she  should  die 
and  leave  her  alone. 

"The  way  Lily  Miller  used  to  talk  about 
Luella  was  enough  to  make  you  mad  and 
enough  to  make  you  cry,"  said  Lydia 
Anderson.  "I've  been  in  there  sometimes 
toward  the  last  when  she  was  too  feeble  to 
cook  and  carried  her  some  blanc-mange  or 
custard — somethin'  I  thought  she  might 
relish,  and  she'd  thank  me,  and  when  I  asked 
her  how  she  was,  say  she  felt  better  than  she 
did  yesterday,  and  asked  me  if  I  didn't  think 
she  looked  better,  dreadful  pitiful,  and  say 
poor  Luella  had  an  awful  time  takin*  care  of 
her  and  doin'  the  work — she  wa'n't  strong 
enough  to  do  anythin' — when  all  the  time 
Luella  wa'n't  liftin'  her  finger  and  poor  Lily 
didn't  get  any  care  except  what  the  neigh 
bours  gave  her,  and  Luella  eat  up  everythin' 
that  was  carried  in  for  Lily.  I  had  it  real 
straight  that  she  did.  Luella  used  to  just 
sit  and  cry  and  do  nothin'.  She  did  act  real 
fond  of  Lily,  and  she  pined  away  considerable, 
too.  There  was  those  that  thought  she'd 


84  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

go  into  a  decline  herself.  But  after  Lily 
died,  her  Aunt  Abby  Mixter  came,  and  then 
Luella  picked  up  and  grew  as  fat  and  rosy 
as  ever.  But  poor  Aunt  Abby  begun  to 
droop  just  the  way  Lily  had,  and  I  guess 
somebody  wrote  to  her  married  daughter, 
Mrs.  Sam  Abbot,  who  lived  in  Barre,  for  she 
wrote  her  mother  that  she  must  leave  right 
away  and  come  and  make  her  a  visit,  but 
Aunt  Abby  wouldn't  go.  I  can  see  her  now. 
She  was  a  real  good-lookin'  woman,  tall  and 
large,  with  a  big,  square  face  and  a  high 
forehead  that  looked  of  itself  kind  of  benevo 
lent  and  good.  She  just  tended  out  on 
Luella  as  if  she  had  been  a  baby,  and  when 
her  married  daughter  sent  for  her  she  wouldn't 
stir  one  inch.  She'd  always  thought  a  lot  of 
her  daughter,  too,  but  she  said  Luella  needed 
her  and  her  married  daughter  didn't.  Her 
daughter  kept  writin'  and  writin',  but  it 
didn't  do  any  good.  Finally  she  came,  and 
when  she  saw  how  bad  her  mother  looked, 
she  broke  down  and  cried  and  all  but  went 
on  her  knees  to  have  her  come  away.  She 
spoke  her  mind  out  to  Luella,  too.  She  told 
her  that  she'd  killed  her  husband  and  every- 


Luella  Miller  85 

body  that  had  anythin'  to  do  with  her,  and 
she'd  thank  her  to  leave  her  mother  alone. 
Luella  went  into  hysterics,  and  Aunt  Abby 
was  so  frightened  that  she  called  me  after 
her  daughter  went.  Mrs.  Sam  Abbot  she 
went  away  fairly  cryin'  out  loud  in  the  buggy, 
the  neighbours  heard  her,  and  well  she  might, 
for  she  never  saw  her  mother  again  alive.  I 
went  in  that  night  when  Aunt  Abby  called 
for  me,  standin'  in  the  door  with  her  little 
green-checked  shawl  over  her  head.  I  can 
see  her  now.  'Do  come  over  here,  Miss 
Anderson,'  she  sung  out,  kind  of  gasping  for 
breath.  I  didn't  stop  for  anythin'.  I  put 
over  as  fast  as  I  could,  and  when  I  got  there, 
there  was  Luella  laughin'  and  cryin'  all 
together,  and  Aunt  Abby  trying  to  hush  her, 
and  all  the  time  she  herself  was  white  as  a 
sheet  and  shakin'  so  she  could  hardly  stand. 
'For  the  land  sakes,  Mrs.  Mixter,'  says  I, 
'you  look  worse  than  she  does.  You  ain't  fit 
to  be  up  out  of  your  bed.' 

" '  Oh,  there  ain't  anythin'  the  matter  with 
me/  says  she.  Then  she  went  on  talkin' 
to  Luella.  'There,  there,  don't,  don't,  poor 
little  lamb,'  says  she.  'Aunt  Abby  is  here. 


86  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

She  ain't  goin'  away  and  leave  you.     Don't, 
poor  little  lamb.' 

"  *  Do  leave  her  with  me,  Mrs.  Mixter,  and 
you  get  back  to  bed,'  says  I,  for  Aunt  Abby 
had  been  layin'  down  considerable  lately, 
though  somehow  she  contrived  to  do  the 
work. 

'"I'm  well  enough,'  says  she.  'Don't  you 
think  she  had  better  have  the  doctor,  Miss 
Anderson  ? ' 

'The  doctor,'  says  I,  'I  think  you  had 
better  have  the  doctor.  I  think  you  need 
him  much  worse  than  some  folks  I  could 
mention.'  And  I  looked  right  straight  at 
Luella  Miller  laughin'  and  cryin'  and  goin' 
on  as  if  she  was  the  centre  of  all  creation. 
All  the  time  she  was  actin'  so — seemed  as  if 
she  was  too  sick  to  sense  anythin' — she  was 
keepin'  a  sharp  lookout  as  to  how  we  took  it 
out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye.  I  see  her.  You 
could  never  cheat  me  about  Luella  Miller. 
Finally  I  got  real  mad  and  I  run  home  and  I 
got  a  bottle  of  valerian  I  had,  and  I  poured 
some  boilin'  hot  water  on  a  handful  of  catnip, 
and  I  mixed  up  that  catnip  tea  with  most 
half  a  wineglass  of  valerian,  and  I  went  with 


Luella  Miller  87 

it  over  to  Luella's.  I  marched  right  up  to 
Luella,  a-holdin'  out  of  that  cup,  all  smokin'. 
'Now/  says  I,  'Luella  Miller,  'you  swatter 
Ms!' 

" '  What  is — what  is  it,  oh,  what  is  it  ?'  she 
sort  of  screeches  out.  Then  she  goes  off 
a-laughin'  enough  to  kill. 

"'Poor  lamb,  poor  little  lamb,'  says  Aunt 
Abby,  standin'  over  her,  all  kind  of  tottery, 
and  tryin'  to  bathe  her  head  with  camphor. 

'"  You  swaller  this  right  down,1  says  I. 
And  I  didn't  waste  any  ceremony.  I  just 
took  hold  of  Luella  Miller's  chin  and  I  tipped 
her  head  back,  and  I  caught  her  mouth  open 
with  laughin',  and  I  clapped  that  cup  to  her 
lips,  and  I  fairly  hollered  at  her:  'Swaller, 
swaller,  swaller!'  and  she  gulped  it  right 
down.  She  had  to,  and  I  guess  it  did  her 
good.  Anyhow,  she  stopped  cryin'  and 
laughin'  and  let  me  put  her  to  bed,  and  she 
went  to  sleep  like  a  baby  inside  of  half  an 
hour.  That  was  more  than  poor  Aunt  Abby 
did.  She  lay  awake  all  that  night  and  I 
stayed  with  her,  though  she  tried  not  to  have 
me ;  said  she  wa'n't  sick  enough  for  watchers. 
But  I  stayed,  and  I  made  some  good  corn- 


88  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

meal  gruel  and  I  fed  her  a  teaspoon  every 
little  while  all  night  long.  It  seemed  to  me 
as  if  she  was  jest  dyin'  from  bein'  all  wore  out. 
In  the  mornin*  as  soon  as  it  was  light  I  run 
over  to  the  Bisbees  and  sent  Johnny  Bisbee 
for  the  doctor.  I  told  him  to  tell  the  doctor 
to  hurry,  and  he  come  pretty  quick.  Poor 
Aunt  Abby  didn't  seem  to  know  much  of 
anythin'  when  he  got  there.  You  couldn't 
hardly  tell  she  breathed,  she  was  so  used  up. 
When  the  doctor  had  gone,  Luella  came  into 
the  room  lookin'  like  a  baby  in  her  ruffled 
nightgown.  I  can  see  her  now.  Her  eyes 
were  as  blue  and  her  face  all  pink  and  white 
like  a  blossom,  and  she  looked  at  Aunt  Abby 
in  the  bed  sort  of  innocent  and  surprised. 
'Why/  says  she,  'Aunt  Abby  ain't  got  up  yet  ? ' 

"'No,  she  ain't,'  says  I,  pretty  short. 

"  '  I  thought  I  didn't  smell  the  coffee/  says 
Luella. 

'"Coffee/  says  I.  'I  guess  if  you  have 
coffee  this  mornin'  you'll  make  it  yourself.' 

"'I  never  made  the  coffee  in  all  my  life/ 
says  she,  dreadful  astonished.  'Erastus 
always  made  the  coffee  as  long  as  he  lived, 
and  then  Lily  she  made  it,  and  then  Aunt 


Luella  Miller  89 

Abby  made  it.  I  don't  believe  I  can  make 
the  coffee,  Miss  Anderson/ 

"  'You  can  make  it  or  go  without,  jest  as 
you  please,*  says  I. 

"'Ain't  Aunt  Abby  goin'  to  get  up?'  says 
she. 

"'I  guess  she  won't  get  up,'  says  I,  'sick  as 
she  is.'  I  was  gettin'  madder  and  madder. 
There  was  somethin'  about  that  little  pink- 
and-white  thing  standin'  there  and  talkin' 
about  coffee,  when  she  had  killed  so  many 
better  folks  than  she  was,  and  had  jest  killed 
another,  that  made  me  feel  'most  as  if  I 
wished  somebody  would  up  and  kill  her 
before  she  had  a  chance  to  do  any  more 
harm. 

"'Is  Aunt  Abby  sick?'  says  Luella,  as  if 
she  was  sort  of  aggrieved  and  injured. 

"'Yes,'  says  I,  'she's  sick,  and  she's  goin' 
to  die,  and  then  you'll  be  left  alone,  and  you'll 
have  to  do  for  yourself  and  wait  on  yourself, 
or  do  without  things.'  I  don't  know  but  I 
was  sort  of  hard,  but  it  was  the  truth,  and  if 
I  was  any  harder  than  Luella  Miller  had  been 
I'll  give  up.  I  ain't  never  been  sorry  that  I 
said  it.  Well,  Luella,  she  up  and  had 


90  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

hysterics  again  at  that,  and  I  jest  let  her  have 
'em.  All  I  did  was  to  bundle  her  into  the 
room  on  the  other  side  of  the  entry  where 
Aunt  Abby  couldn't  hear  her,  if  she  wa'n't 
past  it — I  don't  know  but  she  was — and  set 
her  down  hard  in  a  chair  and  told  her  not  to 
come  back  into  the  other  room,  and  she 
minded.  She  had  her  hysterics  in  there 
till  she  got  tired.  When  she  found  out  that 
nobody  was  comin'  to  coddle  her  and  do  for 
her  she  stopped.  At  least  I  suppose  she  did. 
I  had  all  I  could  do  with  poor  Aunt  Abby 
tryin'  to  keep  the  breath  of  life  in  her.  The 
doctor  had  told  me  that  she  was  dreadful 
low,  and  give  me  some  very  strong  medicine 
to  give  to  her  in  drops  real  often,  and  told  me 
real  particular  about  the  nourishment .  Well, 
I  did  as  he  told  me  real  faithful  till  she  wa'n't 
able  to  swaller  any  longer.  Then  I  had  her 
daughter  sent  for.  I  had  begun  to  realize  that 
she  wouldn't  last  any  time  at  all.  I  hadn't 
realized  it  before,  though  I  spoke  to  Luella 
the  way  I  did.  The  doctor  he  came,  and  Mrs. 
Sam  Abbot,  but  when  she  got  there  it  was 
too  late ;  her  mother  was  dead.  Aunt  Abby's 
daughter  just  give  one  look  at  her  mother 


Luella  Miller  91 

layin'  there,  then  she  turned  sort  of  sharp 
and  sudden  and  looked  at  me. 

" l  Where  is  she  ?'  says  she,  and  I  knew  she 
meant  Luella. 

" '  She's  out  in  the  kitchen,'  says  I.  'She's 
too  nervous  to  see  folks  die.  She's  afraid  it 
will  make  her  sick/ 

"The  Doctor  he  speaks  up  then.  He  was 
a  young  man.  Old  Doctor  Park  had  died 
the  year  before,  and  this  was  a  young  fellow 
just  out  of  college.  'Mrs.  Miller  is  not 
strong,'  says  he,  kind  of  severe,  'and  she  is 
quite  right  in  not  agitating  herself.' 

'"  You  are  another,  young  man;  she's  got 
her  pretty  claw  on  you,'  thinks  I,  but  I  didn't 
say  anythin'  to  him.  I  just  said  over  to 
Mrs.  Sam  Abbot  that  Luella  was  in  the 
kitchen,  and  Mrs.  Sam  Abbot  she  went  out 
there,  and  I  went,  too,  and  I  never  heard 
anythin'  like  the  way  she  talked  to  Luella 
Miller.  I  felt  pretty  hard  to  Luella  myself, 
but  this  was  more  than  I  ever  would  have 
dared  to  say.  Luella  she  was  too  scared  to 
go  into  hysterics.  She  jest  flopped.  She 
seemed  to  jest  shrink  away  to  nothin'  in  that 
kitchen  chair,  with  Mrs.  Sam  Abbot  standin' 


92  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

over  her  and  talkin'  and  tellin'  her  the  truth. 
I  guess  the  truth  was  most  too  much  for  her 
and  no  mistake,  because  Luella  presently 
actually  did  faint  away,  and  there  wa'n't  any 
sham  about  it,  the  way  I  always  suspected 
there  was  about  them  hysterics.  She  fainted 
dead  away  and  we  had  to  lay  her  flat  on  the 
floor,  and  the  Doctor  he  came  runnin'  out 
and  he  said  somethin'  about  a  weak  heart 
dreadful  fierce  to  Mrs.  Sam  Abbot,  but  she 
wa'n't  a  mite  scared.  She  faced  him  jest  as 
white  as  even  Luella  was  layin'  there 
lookin'  like  death  and  the  Doctor  feelin'  of 
her  pulse. 

'"Weak  heart/  says  she,  'weak  heart; 
weak  fiddlesticks  !  There  ain't  nothin'  weak 
about  that  woman.  She's  got  strength 
enough  to  hang  onto  other  folks  till  she  kills 
'em.  Weak?  It  was  my  poor  mother  that 
was  weak :  this  woman  killed  her  as  sure  as  if 
she  had  taken  a  knife  to  her.' 

"  But  the  Doctor  he  didn't  pay  much  atten 
tion.  He  was  bendin'  over  Luella  layin' 
there  with  her  yellow  hair  all  streamin'  and 
her  pretty  pink-and-white  face  all  pale,  and 
her  blue  eyes  like  stars  gone  out,  and  he  was 


Luella  Miller  93 

holdin'  onto  her  hand  and  smoothin'  her 
forehead,  and  tellin'  me  to  get  the  brandy  in 
Aunt  Abby's  room,  and  I  was  sure  as  I 
wanted  to  be  that  Luella  had  got  somebody 
else  to  hang  onto,  now  Aunt  Abby  was  gone, 
and  I  thought  of  poor  Erastus  Miller,  and  I 
sort  of  pitied  the  poor  young  Doctor,  led 
away  by  a  pretty  face,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  I'd  see  what  I  could  do. 

"I  waited  till  Aunt  Abby  had  been  dead 
and  buried  about  a  month,  and  the  Doctor 
was  goin'  to  see  Luella  steady  and  folks  were 
beginnin'  to  talk;  then  one  evenin',  when  I 
knew  the  Doctor  had  been  called  out  of  town 
and  wouldn't  be  round,  I  went  over  to 
Luella' s.  I  found  her  all  dressed  up  in  a 
blue  muslin  with  white  polka  dots  on  it, 
and  her  hair  curled  jest  as  pretty,  and 
there  wa'n't  a  young  girl  in  the  place  could 
compare  with  her.  There  was  somethin' 
about  Luella  Miller  seemed  to  draw  the  heart 
right  out  of  you,  but  she  didn't  draw  it  out 
of  me.  She  was  settin'  rocking  in  the  chair 
by  her  sittin'-room  window,  and  Maria  Brown 
had  gone  home.  Maria  Brown  had  been  in 
to  help  her,  or  rather  to  do  the  work,  for 


94  The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 

Luella  wa'n't  helped  when  she  didn't  do 
anythin'.  Maria  Brown  was  real  capable 
and  she  didn't  have  any  ties;  she  wa'n't 
married,  and  lived  alone,  so  she'd  offered. 
I  couldn't  see  why  she  should  do  the  work 
any  more  than  Luella;  she  wa'n't  any  too 
strong;  but  she  seemed  to  think  she  could 
and  Luella  seemed  to  think  so,  too,  so  she 
went  over  and  did  all  the  work — washed, 
and  ironed,  and  baked,  while  Luella  sat  and 
rocked.  Maria  didn't  live  long  afterward. 
She  began  to  fade  away  just  the  same  fashion 
the  others  had.  Well,  she  was  warned,  but 
she  acted  real  mad  when  folks  said  anythin' : 
said  Luella  was  a  poor,  abused  woman,  too 
delicate  to  help  herself,  and  they'd  ought  to 
be  ashamed,  and  if  she  died  helpin'  them  that 
couldn't  help  themselves  she  would — and  she 
did. 

" '  I  s'pose  Maria  has  gone  home,'  says  I  to 
Luella,  when  I  had  gone  in  and  sat  down 
opposite  her. 

" '  Yes,  Maria  went  half  an  hour  ago,  after 
she  had  got  supper  and  washed  the  dishes/ 
says  Luella,  in  her  pretty  way. 

'"I  suppose  she  has  got  a  lot  of  work  to  do 


Luella  Miller  95 

in  her  own  house  to-night/  says  I,  kind  of 
bitter,  but  that  was  all  thrown  away  on 
Luella  Miller.  It  seemed  to  her  right  that 
other  folks  that  wa'n't  any  better  able  than 
she  was  herself  should  wait  on  her,  and  she 
couldn't  get  it  through  her  head  that  any 
body  should  think  it  wa'n't  right. 

"  *  Yes,'  says  Luella,  real  sweet  and  pretty, 
'yes,  she  said  she  had  to  do  her  washin' 
to-night.  She  has  let  it  go  for  a  fortnight 
along  of  comin'  over  here/ 

'"  Why  don't  she  stay  home  and  do  her 
washin'  instead  of  comin'  over  here  and  doin' 
your  work,  when  you  are  just  as  well  able, 
and  enough  sight  more  so,  than  she  is  to  do 
it?'  says  I. 

"  Then  Luella  she  looked  at  me  like  a  baby 
who  has  a  rattle  shook  at  it.  She  sort  of 
laughed  as  innocent  as  you  please.  'Oh,  I 
can't  do  the  work  myself,  Miss  Anderson,' 
says  she.  'I  never  did.  Maria  has  to 
do  it.' 

"  Then  I  spoke  out :  'Has  to  do  it !'  says  I. 
'Has  to  do  it !'  She  don't  have  to  do  it, 
either.  Maria  Brown  has  her  own  home  and 
enough  to  live  on.  She  ain't  beholden  to 


g6  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

you  to  come  over  here  and  slave  for  you  and 
kill  herself/ 

"Luella  she  jest  set  and  stared  at  me  for 
all  the  world  like  a  doll-baby  that  was  so 
abused  that  it  was  comin'  to  life. 

" '  Yes,'  says  I,  'she's  killin'  herself.  She's 
goin'  to  die  just  the  way  Erastus  did,  and 
Lily,  and  your  Aunt  Abby.  You're  killin' 
her  jest  as  you  did  them.  I  don't  know  what 
there  is  about  you,  but  you  seem  to  bring  a 
curse,'  says  I.  'You  kill  everybody  that  is 
fool  enough  to  care  anythin'  about  you  and 
do  for  you.' 

"  She  stared  at  me  and  she  was  pretty  pale. 

'"And  Maria  ain't  the  only  one  you're 
goin'  to  kill,'  says  I.  'You're  goin'  to  kill 
Doctor  Malcom  before  you're  done  with  him.' 

"Then  a  red  colour  came  flamin'  all  over 
her  face.  'I  ain't  goin'  to  kill  him,  either,' 
says  she,  and  she  begun  to  cry. 

" '  Yes,  you  be! '  says  I.  Then  I  spoke  as  I 
had  never  spoke  before.  You  see,  I  felt  it  on 
account  of  Erastus.  I  told  her  that  she 
hadn't  any  business  to  think  of  another  man 
after  she'd  been  married  to  one  that  had  died 
for  her :  that  she  was  a  dreadful  woman ;  and 


Luella  Miller  97 

she  was,  that's  true  enough,  but  sometimes  I 
have  wondered  lately  if  she  knew  it — if  she 
wa'n't  like  a  baby  with  scissors  in  its  hand 
cuttin'  everybody  without  knowin'  what  it 
was  doin'. 

"  Luella  she  kept  gettin'  paler  and  paler, 
and  she  never  took  her  eyes  off  my  face. 
There  was  somethin'  awful  about  the  way  she 
looked  at  me  and  never  spoke  one  word. 
After  awhile  I  quit  talkin'  and  I  went  home. 
I  watched  that  night,  but  her  lamp  went  out 
before  nine  o'clock,  and  when  Doctor  Malcom 
came  drivin'  past  and  sort  of  slowed  up  he 
see  there  wa'n't  any  light  and  he  drove 
along.  I  saw  her  sort  of  shy  out  of  meetin' 
the  next  Sunday,  too,  so  he  shouldn't  go 
home  with  her,  and  I  begun  to  think  mebbe 
she  did  have  some  conscience  after  all.  It 
was  only  a  week  after  that  that  Maria  Brown 
died — sort  of  sudden  at  the  last,  though 
everybody  had  seen  it  was  comin'.  Well, 
then  there  was  a  good  deal  of  feelin'  and 
pretty  dark  whispers.  Folks  said  the  days 
of  witchcraft  had  come  again,  and  they  were 
pretty  shy  of  Luella.  She  acted  sort  of 
offish  to  the  Doctor  and  he  didn't  go  there, 


98  The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

and  there  wa'n't  anybody  to  do  anythin'  for 
her.  I  don't  know  how  she  did  get  along.  I 
wouldn't  go  in  there  and  offer  to  help  her — 
not  because  I  was  afraid  of  dyin'  like  the  rest, 
but  I  thought  she  was  just  as  well  able  to  do 
her  own  work  as  I  was  to  do  it  for  her,  and  I 
thought  it  was  about  time  that  she  did  it  and 
stopped  killin'  other  folks.  But  it  wa'n't 
very  long  before  folks  began  to  say  that 
Luella  herself  was  goin'  into  a  decline  jest  the 
way  her  husband,  and  Lily,  and  Aunt  Abby 
and  the  others  had,  and  I  saw  myself  that 
she  looked  pretty  bad.  I  used  to  see  her 
goin'  past  from  the  store  with  a  bundle  as  if 
she  could  hardly  crawl,  but  I  remembered 
how  Erastus  used  to  wait  and  'tend  when 
he  couldn't  hardly  put  one  foot  before  the 
other,  and  I  didn't  go  out  to  help  her. 

"  But  at  last  one  afternoon  I  saw  the 
Doctor  come  drivin'  up  like  mad  with  his 
medicine  chest,  and  Mrs.  Babbit  came  in 
after  supper  and  said  that  Luella  was  real 
sick. 

"'I'd  offer  to  go  in  and  nurse  her/  says 
she,  'but  I've  got  my  children  to  consider, 
and  mebbe  it  ain't  true  what  they  say,  but 


Luella  Miller  99 

it's  queer  how  many  folks  that  have  done 
for  her  have  died/ 

"I  didn't  say  anything  but  I  considered 
how  she  had  been  Erastus's  wife  and  how  he 
had  set  his  eyes  by  her,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  go  in  the  next  mornin',  unless  she 
was  better,  and  see  what  I  could  do ;  but  the 
next  mornin'  I  see  her  at  the  window,  and 
pretty  soon  she  came  steppin'  out  as  spry  as 
you  please,  and  a  little  while  afterward  Mrs. 
Babbit  came  in  and  told  me  that  the  Doctor 
had  got  a  girl  from  out  of  town,  a  Sarah  Jones, 
to  come  there,  and  she  said  she  was  pretty  sure 
that  the  Doctor  was  goin'  to  marry  Luella. 

"  I  saw  him  kiss  her  in  the  door  that  night 
myself,  and  I  knew  it  was  true.  The  woman 
came  that  afternoon,  and  the  way  she  flew 
around  was  a  caution.  I  don't  believe  Luella 
had  swept  since  Maria  died.  She  swept  and 
dusted,  and  washed  and  ironed;  wet  clothes 
and  dusters  and  carpets  were  flyin'  over 
there  all  day,  and  every  time  Luella  set  her 
foot  out  when  the  Doctor  wa'n't  there  there 
was  that  Sarah  Jones  helpin'  of  her  up  and 
down  the  steps,  as  if  she  hadn't  learned  to 
walk. 


ioo        The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"Well,  everybody  knew  that  Luella  and 
the  Doctor  were  goin'  to  be  married,  but  it 
wa'n't  long  before  they  began  to  talk  about 
his  lookin'  so  poorly,  jest  as  they  had  about 
the  others;  and  they  talked  about  Sarah 
Jones,  too. 

"Well,  the  Doctor  did  die,  and  he  wanted 
to  be  married  first,  so  as  to  leave  what  little 
he  had  to  Luella,  but  he  died  before  the 
minister  could  get  there,  and  Sarah  Jones 
died  a  week  afterward. 

"Well,  that  wound  up  everything  for 
Luella  Miller.  Not  another  soul  in  the  whole 
town  would  lift  a  finger  for  her.  There  got 
to  be  a  sort  of  panic.  Then  she  began  to 
droop  in  good  earnest.  She  used  to  have  to 
go  to  the  store  herself,  for  Mrs.  Babbit  was 
afraid  to  let  Tommy  go  for  her,  and  I've  seen 
her  goin'  past  and  stoppin'  every  two  or  three 
steps  to  rest.  Well,  I  stood  it  as  long  as  I 
could,  but  one  day  I  see  her  comin'  with  her 
arms  full  and  stoppin'  to  lean  against  the 
Babbit  fence,  and  I  run  out  and  took  lier 
bundles  and  carried  them  to  her  house.  Then 
I  went  home  and  never  spoke  one  word  to  her 
though  she  called  after  me  dreadful  kind  of 


Luella  Miller  101 

pitiful.  Well,  that  night  I  was  taken  sick 
with  a  chill,  and  I  was  sick  as  I  wanted  to  be 
for  two  weeks.  Mrs.  Babbit  had  seen  me  run 
out  to  help  Luella  and  she  came  in  and  told 
me  I  was  goin'  to  die  on  account  of  it.  I 
didn't  know  whether  I  was  or  not,  but  I  con 
sidered  I  had  done  right  by  Erastus's  wife. 

"That  last  two  weeks  Luella  she  had  a 
dreadful  hard  time,  I  guess.  She  was  pretty 
sick,  and  as  near  as  I  could  make  out 
nobody  dared  go  near  her.  I  don't  know  as 
she  was  really  needin'  anythin'  very  much, 
for  there  was  enough  to  eat  in  her  house  and 
it  was  warm  weather,  and  she  made  out  to 
cook  a  little  flour  gruel  every  day,  I  know, 
but  I  guess  she  had  a  hard  time,  she  that  had 
been  so  petted  and  done  for  all  her  life. 

"  When  I  got  so  I  could  go  out,  I  went  over 
there  one  morning.  Mrs.  Babbit  had  just 
come  in  to  say  she  hadn't  seen  any  smoke  and 
she  didn't  know  but  it  was  somebody's  duty 
to  go  in,  but  she  couldn't  help  thinkin' 
of  her  children,  and  I  got  right  up,  though  I 
hadn't  been  out  of  the  house  for  two  weeks, 
and  I  went  in  there,  and  Luella  she  was 
layin'  on  the  bed,  and  she  was  dyin'. 


102          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"She  lasted  all  that  day  and  into  the 
night.  But  I  sat  there  after  the  new  doctor 
had  gone  away.  Nobody  else  dared  to  go 
there.  It  was  about  midnight  that  I  left 
her  for  a  minute  to  run  home  and  get  some 
medicine  I  had  been  takin',  for  I  begun  to 
feel  rather  bad. 

"It  was  a  full  moon  that  night,  and  just 
as  I  started  out  of  my  door  to  cross  the  street 
back  to  Luella's,  I  stopped  short,  for  I  saw 
something. " 

Lydia  Anderson  at  this  juncture  always 
said  with  a  certain  defiance  that  she  did  not 
expect  to  be  believed,  and  then  proceeded 
in  a  hushed  voice : 

"  I  saw  what  I  saw,  and  I  know  I  saw  it, 
and  I  will  swear  on  my  death  bed  that 
I  saw  it.  I  saw  Luella  Miller  and  Erastus 
Miller,  and  Lily,  and  Aunt  Abby,  and 
Maria,  and  the  Doctor,  and  Sarah,  all 
goin'  out  of  her  door,  and  all  but  Luella 
shone  white  in  the  moonlight,  and  they  were 
all  helpin'  her  along  till  she  seemed  to  fairly 
fly  in  the  midst  of  them.  Then  it  all  dis 
appeared.  I  stood  a  minute  with  my  heart 
poundin',  then  I  went  over  there.  I  thought 


"All  but  Luella  shone  white  in  the  moonlight  " 


Luella  Miller  103 

of  goin'  for  Mrs.  Babbit,  but  I  thought  she'd 
be  afraid.  So  I  went  alone,  though  I  knew 
what  had  happened.  Luella  was  layin'  real 
peaceful,  dead  on  her  bed. " 

This  was  the  story  that  the  old  woman, 
Lydia  Anderson,  told,  but  the  sequel  was  told 
by  the  people  who  survived  her,  and  this 
is  the  tale  which  has  become  folklore  in 
the  village. 

Lydia  Anderson  died  when  she  was  eighty- 
seven.  She  had  continued  wonderfully  hale 
and  hearty  for  one  of  her  years  until  about 
two  weeks  before  her  death. 

One  bright  moonlight  evening  she  was 
sitting  beside  a  window  in  her  parlour  when 
she  made  a  sudden  exclamation,  and  was 
out  of  the  house  and  across  the  street  before 
the  neighbour  who  was  taking  care  of  her 
could  stop  her.  She  followed  as  fast  as 
possible  and  found  Lydia  Anderson  stretched 
on  the  ground  before  the  door  of  Luella 
Miller's  deserted  house,  and  she  was  quite 
dead. 

The  next  night  there  was  a  red  gleam  of 
fire  athwart  the  moonlight  and  the  old  house 
of  Luella  Miller  was  burned  to  the  ground. 


104         The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Nothing  is  now  left  of  it  except  a  few  old 
cellar  stones  and  a  lilac  bush,  and  in  summer 
a  helpless  trail  of  morning  glories  among 
the  weeds,  which  might  be  considered 
emblematic  of  Luella  herself. 


THE    SOUTHWEST   CHAMBER 


THE   SOUTHWEST   CHAMBER 

THAT  school-teacher  from  Acton  is 
coming  to-day,"  said  the  elder  Miss 
Gill,  Sophia. 

"So  she  is,"  assented  the  younger  Miss 
Gill,  Amanda. 

"I  have  decided  to  put  her  in  the  southwest 
chamber,"  said  Sophia. 

Amanda  looked  at  her  sister  with  an 
expression  of  mingled  doubt  and  terror. 

"You  don't  suppose  she  would "  she 

began  hesitatingly. 

"Would  what  ?"  demanded  Sophia,  sharply. 

She  was  more  incisive  than  her  sister. 
Both  were  below  the  medium  height,  and 
stout,  but  Sophia  was  firm  where  Amanda  was 
flabby.  Amanda  wore  a  baggy  old  muslin 
(it  was  a  hot  day),  and  Sophia  was  uncom 
promisingly  hooked  up  in  a  starched  and 
boned  cambric  over  her  high  shelving  figure. 

"I  didn't  know  but  she  would  object  to 
sleeping  in  that  room,  as  long  as  Aunt  Harriet 
107 


io8          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

died  there  such  a  little  time  ago,"  faltered 
Amanda. 

"Well!"  said  Sophia,  "of  all  the  silly 
notions  !  If  you  are  going  to  pick  out  rooms 
in  this  house  where  nobody  has  died,  for 
the  boarders,  you'll  have  your  hands  full. 
Grandfather  Ackley  had  seven  children; 
four  of  them  died  here  to  my  certain  knowl 
edge,  besides  grandfather  and  grandmother. 
I  think  Great-grandmother  Ackley,  grand 
father's  mother,  died  here,  too;  she  must 
have;  and  Great-grandfather  Ackley,  and 
grandfather's  unmarried  sister,  Great-aunt 
Fanny  Ackley.  I  don't  believe  there's  a 
room  nor  a  bed  in  this  house  that  some 
body  hasn't  passed  away  in." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  am  silly  to  think  of  it, 
and  she  had  better  go  in  there,"  said  Amanda. 

"I  know  she  had.  The  northeast  room 
is  small  and  hot,  and  she's  stout  and  likely 
to  feel  the  heat,  and  she's  saved  money  and 
is  able  to  board  out  summers,  and  maybe 
she'll  come  here  another  year  if  she's  well 
accommodated,"  said  Sophia.  "Now  I  guess 
you'd  better  go  in  there  and  see  if  any  dust 
has  settled  on  anything  since  it  was  cleaned, 


The  Southwest  Chamber  109 

and  open  the  west  windows  and  let  the  sun  in, 
while  I  see  to  that  cake." 

Amanda  went  to  her  task  in  the  southwest 
chamber  while  her  sister  stepped  heavily 
down  the  back  stairs  on  her  way  to  the 
kitchen. 

"It  seems  to  me  you  had  better  open  the 
bed  while  you  air  and  dust,  then  make  it  up 
again,"  she  called  back. 

"Yes,  sister,"  Amanda  answered,  shud- 
deringly. 

Nobody  knew  how  this  elderly  woman 
with  the  untrammeled  imagination  of  a 
child  dreaded  to  enter  the  southwest  cham 
ber,  and  yet  she  could  not  have  told  why  she 
had  the  dread.  She  had  entered  and  occu 
pied  rooms  which  had  been  once  tenanted 
by  persons  now  dead.  The  room  which 
had  been  hers  in  the  little  house  in  which 
she  and  her  sister  had  lived  before  coming 
here  had  been  her  dead  mother's.  She  had 
never  reflected  upon  the  fact  with  anything 
but  loving  awe  and  reverence.  There  had 
never  been  any  fear.  But  this  was  different. 
She  entered  and  her  heart  beat  thickly  in 
her  ears.  Her  hands  were  cold.  The  room 


no          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

was  a  very  large  one.  The  four  windows, 
two  facing  south,  two  west,  were  closed,  the 
blinds  also.  The  room  was  in  a  film  of  green 
gloom.  The  furniture  loomed  out  vaguely. 
The  gilt  frame  of  a  blurred  old  engraving 
on  the  wall  caught  a  little  light.  The  white 
counterpane  on  the  bed  showed  like  a 
blank  page. 

Amanda  crossed  the  room,  opened  with 
a  straining  motion  of  her  thin  back  and 
shoulders  one  of  the  west  windows,  and 
threw  back  the  blind.  Then  the  room 
revealed  itself  an  apartment  full  of  an  aged 
and  worn  but  no  less  valid  state.  Pieces 
of  old  mahogany  swelled  forth;  a  peacock- 
patterned  chintz  draped  the  bedstead. 
This  chintz  also  covered  a  great  easy  chair 
which  had  been  the  favourite  seat  of  the 
former  occupant  of  the  room.  The  closet 
door  stood  ajar.  Amanda  noticed  that 
with  wonder.  There  was  a  glimpse  of  purple 
drapery  floating  from  a  peg  inside  the  closet. 
Amanda  went  across  and  took  down  the 
garment  hanging  there.  She  wondered  how 
her  sister  had  happened  to  leave  it  when  she 
cleaned  the  room.  It  was  an  old  loose  gown 


The  Southwest  Chamber 


in 


which  had  belonged  to  her  aunt.  She  took 
it  down,  shuddering,  and  closed  the  closet 
door  after  a  fearful  glance  into  its  dark 
depths.  It  was  a  long  closet  with  a  strong 
odour  of  lovage.  The  Aunt  Harriet  had  had 
a  habit  of  eating  lovage  and  had  carried  it 
constantly  in  her  pocket.  There  was  very 
likely  some  of  the  pleasant  root  in  the  pocket 
of  the  musty  purple  gown  which  Amanda 
threw  over  the  easy  chair. 

Amanda  perceived  the  odour  with  a  start 
as  if  before  an  actual  presence.  Odour  seems 
in  a  sense  a  vital  part  of  a  personality.  It 
can  survive  the  flesh  to  which  it  has  clung 
like  a  persistent  shadow,  seeming  to  have  in 
itself  something  of  the  substance  of  that 
to  which  it  pertained.  Amanda  was  always 
conscious  of  this  fragrance  of  lovage  as  she 
tidied  the  room.  She  dusted  the  heavy 
mahogany  pieces  punctiliously  after  she  had 
opened  the  bed  as  her  sister  had  directed. 
She  spread  fresh  towels  over  the  wash-stand 
and  the  bureau;  she  made  the  bed.  Then 
she  thought  to  take  the  purple  gown  from  the 
easy  chair  and  carry  it  to  the  garret  and  put 
it  in  the  trunk  with  the  other  articles  of  the 


ii2          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

dead  woman's  wardrobe  which  had  been 
packed  away  there;  but  the  purple  gown  was 
not  on  the  chair  ! 

Amanda  Gill  was  not  a  woman  of  strong 
convictions  even  as  to  her  own  actions. 
She  directly  thought  that  possibly  she  had 
been  mistaken  and  had  not  removed  it  from 
the  closet.  She  glanced  at  the  closet  door 
and  saw  with  surprise  that  it  was  open,  and 
she  had  thought  she  had  closed  it,  but  she 
instantly  was  not  sure  of  that.  So  she 
entered  the  closet  and  looked  for  the  purple 
gown.  It  was  not  there  / 

Amanda  Gill  went  feebly  out  of  the  closet 
and  looked  at  the  easy  chair  again.  The 
purple  gown  was  not  there !  She  looked 
wildly  around  the  room.  She  went  down  on 
her  trembling  knees  and  peered  under  the 
bed,  she  opened  the  bureau  drawers,  she 
looked  again  in  the  closet.  Then  she  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  fairly  wrung 
her  hands. 

"What  does  it  mean  ?"  she  said  in  a  shocked 
whisper. 

She  had  certainly  seen  that  loose  purple 
gown  of  her  dead  Aunt  Harriet's. 


The  Southwest  Chamber  113 

There  is  a  limit  at  which  self -refutation 
must  stop  in  any  sane  person.  Amanda 
Gill  had  reached  it.  She  knew  that  she  had 
seen  that  purple  gown  in  that  closet;  she 
knew  that  she  had  removed  it  and  put  it  on 
the  easy  chair.  She  also  knew  that  she  had 
not  taken  it  out  of  the  room.  She  felt  a 
curious  sense  of  being  inverted  mentally. 
It  was  as  if  all  her  traditions  and  laws  of 
life  were  on  their  heads.  Never  in  her  simple 
record  had  any  garment  not  remained  where 
she  had  placed  it  unless  removed  by  some 
palpable  human  agency. 

Then  the  thought  occurred  to  her  that 
possibly  her  sister  Sophia  might  have  entered 
the  room  unobserved  while  her  back  was 
turned  and  removed  the  dress.  A  sensation 
of  relief  came  over  her.  Her  blood  seemed 
to  flow  back  into  its  usual  channels;  the 
tension  of  her  nerves  relaxed. 

"How  silly  I  am,"  she  said  aloud. 

She  hurried  out  and  downstairs  into  the 
kitchen  where  Sophia  was  making  cake, 
stirring  with  splendid  circular  sweeps  of 
a  wooden  spoon  a  creamy  yellow  mass.  She 
looked  up  as  her  sister  entered. 


ii4          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"Have  you  got  it  done  ?"  said  she. 

"Yes,'*  replied  Amanda.  Then  she  hesi 
tated.  A  sudden  terror  overcame  her.  It 
did  not  seem  as  if  it  were  at  all  probable  that 
Sophia  had  left  that  foamy  cake  mixture  a 
second  to  go  to  Aunt  Harriet's  chamber 
and  remove  that  purple  gown. 

"Well,"  said  Sophia,  "if  you  have  got  that 
done  I  wish  you  would  take  hold  and  string 
those  beans.  The  first  thing  we  know  there 
won't  be  time  to  boil  them  for  dinner." 

Amanda  moved  toward  the  pan  of  beans 
on  the  table,  then  she  looked  at  her  sister. 

"Did  you  come  up  in  Aunt  Harriet's  room 
while  I  was  there?"  she  asked  weakly. 

She  knew  while  she  asked  what  the  answer 
would  be. 

"Up  in  Aunt  Harriet's  room  ?  Of  course  I 
didn't.  I  couldn't  leave  this  cake  without 
having  it  fall.  You  know  that  well  enough. 
Why?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Amanda. 

Suddenly  she  realized  that  she  could  not 
tell  her  sister  what  had  happened,  for  before 
the  utter  absurdity  of  the  whole  thing  her 
belief  in  her  own  reason  quailed.  She  knew 


The  Southwest  Chamber  115 

what  Sophia  would  say  if  she  told  her.  She 
could  hear  her. 

'  'Amanda  Gill,  have  you  gone  stark  staring 
mad?" 

She  resolved  that  she  would  never  tell 
Sophia.  She  dropped  into  a  chair  and  begun 
shelling  the  beans  with  nerveless  fingers. 
Sophia  looked  at  her  curiously. 

" Amanda  Gill,  what  on  earth  ails  you?" 
she  asked. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Amanda.  She  bent  her 
head  very  low  over  the  green  pods. 

"Yes,  there  is,  too  !  You  are  as  white  as  a 
sheet,  and  your  hands  are  shaking  so  you  can 
hardly  string  those  beans.  I  did  think  you 
had  more  sense,  Amanda  Gill." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Sophia." 

"  Yes,  you  do  know  what  I  mean,  too ;  you 
needn't  pretend  you  don't.  Why  did  you  ask 
me  if  I  had  been  in  that  room,  and  why  do 
you  act  so  queer?" 

Amanda  hesitated.  She  had  been  trained 
to  truth.  Then  she  lied. 

"I  wondered  if  you'd  noticed  how  it  had 
leaked  in  on  the  paper  over  by  the  bureau, 
that  last  rain,"  said  she. 


n6          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"What  makes  you  look  so  pale  then?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  guess  the  heat  sort  of 
overcame  me." 

"I  shouldn't  think  it  could  have  been  very 
hot  in  that  room  when  it  had  been  shut  up  so 
long,"  said  Sophia. 

She  was  evidently  not  satisfied,  but  then 
the  grocer  came  to  the  door  and  the  matter 
dropped. 

For  the  next  hour  the  two  women  were 
very  busy.  They  kept  no  servant.  When 
they  had  come  into  possession  of  this  fine  old 
place  by  the  death  of  their  aunt  it  had 
seemed  a  doubtful  blessing.  There  was  not 
a  cent  with  which  to  pay  for  repairs  and  taxes 
and  insurance,  except  the  twelve  hundred 
dollars  which  they  had  obtained  from  the  sale 
of  the  little  house  in  which  they  had  been 
born  and  lived  all  their  lives.  There  had 
been  a  division  in  the  old  Ackley  family  years 
before.  One  of  the  daughters  had  married 
against  her  mother's  wish  and  had  been 
disinherited.  She  had  married  a  poor  man 
by  the  name  of  Gill,  and  shared  his  humble 
lot  in  sight  of  her  former  home  and  her  sister 
and  mother  living  in  prosperity,  until  she 


The  Southwest  Chamber  117 

had  borne  three  daughters;  then  she  died, 
worn  out  with  overwork  and  worry. 

The  mother  and  the  elder  sister  had  been 
pitiless  to  the  last.  Neither  had  ever  spoken 
to  her  since  she  left  her  home  the  night  of 
her  marriage.  They  were  hard  women. 

The  three  daughters  of  the  disinherited 
sister  had  lived  quiet  and  poor,  but  not 
actually  needy  lives.  Jane,  the  middle 
daughter,  had  married,  and  died  in  less  than 
a  year.  Amanda  and  Sophia  had  taken  the 
girl  baby  she  left  when  the  father  married 
again.  Sophia  had  taught  a  primary  school 
for  many  years;  she  had  saved  enough  to 
buy  the  little  house  in  which  they  lived. 
Amanda  had  crocheted  lace,  and  embroidered 
flannel,  and  made  tidies  and  pincushions,  and 
had  earned  enough  for  her  clothes  and  the 
child's,  little  Flora  Scott. 

Their  father,  William  Gill,  had  died  before 
they  were  thirty,  and  now  in  their  late  middle 
life  had  come  the  death  of  the  aunt  to  whom 
they  had  never  spoken,  although  they  had 
often  seen  her,  who  had  lived  in  solitary  state 
in  the  old  Ackley  mansion  until  she  was  more 
than  eighty.  There  had  been  no  will,  and 


n8          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

they  were  the  only  heirs  with  the  exception 
of  young  Flora  Scott,  the  daughter  of  the 
dead  sister. 

Sophia  and  Amanda  thought  directly  of 
Flora  when  they  knew  of  the  inheritance. 

"It  will  be  a  splendid  thing  for  her ;  she  will 
have  enough  to  live  on  when  we  are  gone," 
Sophia  said. 

She  had  promptly  decided  what  was  to  be 
done.  The  small  house  was  to  be  sold,  and 
they  were  to  move  into  the  old  Ackley 
house  and  take  boarders  to  pay  for  its  keep 
ing.  She  scouted  the  idea  of  selling  it. 
She  had  an  enormous  family  pride.  She  had 
always  held  her  head  high  when  she  had 
walked  past  that  fine  old  mansion,  the  cradle 
of  her  race,  which  she  was  forbidden  to  enter. 
She  was  unmoved  when  the  lawyer  who  was 
advising  her  disclosed  to  her  the  fact  that 
Harriet  Ackley  had  used  every  cent  of  the 
Ackley  money. 

"I  realize  that  we  have  to  work,"  said  she, 
"but  my  sister  and  I  have  determined  to 
keep  the  place.'" 

That  was  the  end  of  the  discussion.  Sophia 
and  Amanda  Gill  had  been  living  in  the  old 


The  Southwest  Chamber  119 

Ackley  house  a  fortnight,  and  they  had  three 
boarders:  an  elderly  widow  with  a  com 
fortable  income,  a  young  Congregationalist 
clergyman,  and  the  middle-aged  single  woman 
who  had  charge  of  the  village  library.  Now 
the  school-teacher  from  Acton,  Miss  Louisa 
Stark,  was  expected  for  the  summer,  and 
would  make  four. 

Sophia  considered  that  they  were  com 
fortably  provided  for.  Her  wants  and  her 
sister's  were  very  few,  and  even  the  niece, 
although  a  young  girl,  had  small  expenses, 
since  her  wardrobe  was  supplied  for  years 
to  come  from  that  of  the  deceased  aunt. 
There  were  stored  away  in  the  garret  of  the 
Ackley  house  enough  voluminous  black 
silks"  and  satins  and  bombazines  to  keep  her 
clad  in  somber  richness  for  years  to  come. 

Flora  was  a  very  gentle  girl,  with  large, 
serious  blue  eyes,  a  seldom-smiling,  pretty 
mouth,  and  smooth  flaxen  hair.  She  was 
delicate  and  very  young — sixteen  on  her  next 
birthday. 

She  came  home  soon  now  with  her  parcels 
of  sugar  and  tea  from  the  grocer's.  She 
entered  the  kitchen  gravely  and  deposited 


120          The  Wind  in  the  Rose -bush 

them  on  the  table  by  which  her  Aunt 
Amanda  was  seated  stringing  beans.  Flora 
wore  an  obsolete  turban-shaped  hat  of  black 
straw  which  had  belonged  to  the  dead  aunt ; 
it  set  high  like  a  crown,  revealing  her  fore 
head.  Her  dress  was  an  ancient  purple- 
and-white  print,  too  long  and  too  large 
except  over  the  chest,  where  it  held  her 
like  a  straight  waistcoat. 

"You  had  better  take  off  your  hat, 
Flora,"  said  Sophia.  She  turned  suddenly 
to  Amanda.  "Did  you  fill  the  water- 
pitcher  in  that  chamber  for  the  school 
teacher  ?"  she  asked  severely.  She  was  quite 
sure  that  Amanda  had  not  filled  the  water- 
pitcher. 

Amanda  blushed  and  started  guiltily.  "I 
declare,  I  don't  believe  I  did,"  said  she. 

"I  didn't  think  you  had,"  said  her  sister 
with  sarcastic  emphasis. 

"Flora,  you  go  up  to  the  room  that  was 
your  Great-aunt  Harriet's,  and  take  the 
water-pitcher  off  the  wash-stand  and  fill  it 
with  water.  Be  real  careful,  and  don't  break 
the  pitcher,  and  don't  spill  the  water." 

"In    that    chamber?"    asked    Flora.     She 


The  Southwest  Chamber  121 

spoke  very  quietly,  but  her  face  changed 
a  little. 

"Yes,  in  that  chamber,"  returned  her  Aunt 
Sophia  sharply.  "Go  right  along." 

Flora  went,  and  her  light  footstep  was 
heard  on  the  stairs.  Very  soon  she  returned 
with  the  blue-and-white  water-pitcher  and 
filled  it  carefully  at  the  kitchen  sink. 

"Now  be  careful  and  not  spill  it,"  said 
Sophia  as  she  went  out  of  the  room  carrying 
it  gingerly. 

Amanda  gave  a  timidly  curious  glance  at 
her ;  she  wondered  if  she  had  seen  the  purple 
gown. 

Then  she  started,  for  the  village  stage 
coach  was  seen  driving  around  to  the  front 
of  the  house.  The  house  stood  on  a  corner. 

"Here,  Amanda,  you  look  better  than  I 
do ;  you  go  and  meet  her,"  said  Sophia.  "I'll 
just  put  the  cake  in  the  pan  and  get  it  in  the 
oven  and  I'll  come.  Show  her  right  up  to 
her  room." 

Amanda  removed  her  apron  hastily  and 
obeyed.  Sophia  hurried  with  her  cake, 
pouring  it  into  the  baking-tins.  She  had 
just  put  it  in  the  oven,  when  the  door  opened 


122          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

and  Flora  entered  carrying  the  blue  water- 
pitcher. 

"What  are  you  bringing  down  that  pitcher 
again  for?"  asked  Sophia. 

"She  wants  some  water,  and  Aunt  Amanda 
sent  me,"  replied  Flora. 

Her  pretty  pale  face  had  a  bewildered 
expression. 

"For  the  land  sake,  she  hasn't  used  all  that 
great  pitcherful  of  water  so  quick?" 

"There  wasn't  any  water  in  it,"  replied 
Flora. 

Her  high,  childish  forehead  was  contracted 
slightly  with  a  puzzled  frown  as  she  looked 
at  her  aunt. 

"Wasn't  any  water  in  it  ?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Didn't  I  see  you  filling  the  pitcher  with 
water  not  ten  minutes  ago,  I  want  to  know  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"What  did  you  do  with  that  water  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"Did  you  carry  that  pitcherful  of  water 
up  to  that  room  and  set  it  on  the  wash- 
stand?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 


The  Southwest  Chamber  123 

"Didn't  you  spill  it?" 

"No,  ma'am."  * 

"Now,  Flora  Scott,  I  want  the  truth  !  Did 
you  fill  that  pitcher  with  water  and  carry 
it  up  there,  and  wasn't  there  any  there  when 
she  came  to  use  it  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Let  me  see  that  pitcher."  Sophia  exam 
ined  the  pitcher.  It  was  not  only  perfectly 
dry  from  top  to  bottom,  but  even  a  little 
dusty.  She  turned  severely  on  the  young 
girl.  "That  shows,"  said  she,  "you  did  not 
fill  the  pitcher  at  all.  You  let  the  water  run 
at  the  side  because  you  didn't  want  to  carry 
it  upstairs.  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  It's 
bad  enough  to  be  so  lazy,  but  when  it  comes 
to  not  telling  the  truth " 

The  young  girl's  face  broke  up  suddenly 
into  piteous  confusion,  and  her  blue  eyes 
became  filmy  with  tears. 

"I  did  fill  the  pitcher,  honest,"  she  fal 
tered,  "I  did,  Aunt  Sophia.  You  ask  Aunt 
Amanda." 

"I'll  ask  nobody.  This  pitcher  is  proof 
enough.  Water  don't  go  off  and  leave  the 
pitcher  dusty  on  the  inside  if  it  was  put  in 


124         The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

ten  minutes  ago.  Now  you  fill  that  pitcher 
full  quick,  and  you  carry  it  upstairs,  and  if 
you  spill  a  drop  there'll  be  something  besides 
talk." 

Flora  filled  the  pitcher,  with  the  tears 
falling  over  her  cheeks.  She  sniveled  softly 
as  she  went  out,  balancing  it  carefully 
against  her  slender  hip.  Sophia  followed  her. 

"Stop  crying,"  said  she  sharply;  "you 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  What  do 
you  suppose  Miss  Louisa  Stark  will  think. 
No  water  in  her  pitcher  in  the  first  place, 
and  then  you  come  back  crying  as  if  you 
didn't  want  to  get  it." 

In  spite  of  herself,  Sophia's  voice  was 
soothing.  She  was  very  fond  of  the  girl. 
She  followed  her  up  the  stairs  to  the  chamber 
where  Miss  Louisa  Stark  was  waiting  for  the 
water  to  remove  the  soil  of  travel.  She  had 
removed  her  bonnet,  and  its  tuft  of  red 
geraniums  lightened  the  obscurity  of  the 
mahogany  dresser.  She  had  placed  her  little 
beaded  cape  carefully  on  the  bed.  She  was 
replying  to  a  tremulous  remark  of  Amanda's, 
who  was  nearly  fainting  from  the  new 
mystery  of  the  water-pitcher,  that  it  was 


The  Southwest  Chamber  125 

warm  and  she  suffered  a  good  deal  in  warm 
weather. 

Louisa  Stark  was  stout  and  solidly  built. 
She  was  much  larger  than  either  of  the  Gill 
sisters.  She  was  a  masterly  woman  inured 
to  command  from  years  of  school-teaching. 
She  carried  her  swelling  bulk  with  majesty; 
even  her  face,  moist  and  red  with  the  heat, 
lost  nothing  of  its  dignity  of  expression. 

She  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor 
with  an  air  which  gave  the  effect  of  her 
standing  upon  an  elevation.  She  turned 
when  Sophia  and  Flora,  carrying  the  water- 
pitcher,  entered. 

"This  is  my  sister  Sophia,"  said  Amanda 
tremulously. 

Sophia  advanced,  shook  hands  with  Miss 
Louisa  Stark  and  bade  her  welcome  and 
hoped  she  would  like  her  room.  Then 
she  moved  toward  the  closet.  "There  is 
a  nice  large  closet  in  this  room — the  best 
closet  in  the  house.  You  might  have  your 
trunk "  she  said,  then  she  stopped  short. 

The  closet  door  was  ajar,  and  a  purple 
garment  seemed  suddenly  to  swing  into 
view  as  if  impelled  by  some  wind. 


126          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

1  'Why,  here  is  something  left  in  this 
closet,"  Sophia  said  in  a  mortified  tone.  "I 
thought  all  those  things  had  been  taken 
away." 

She  pulled  down  the  garment  with  a  jerk, 
and  as  she  did  so  Amanda  passed  her  in  a 
weak  rush  for  the  door. 

"I  am  afraid  your  sister  is  not  well,"  said 
the  school-teacher  from  Acton.  "She  looked 
very  pale  when  you  took  that  dress  down. 
I  noticed  it  at  once.  Hadn't  you  better  go 
and  see  what  the  matter  is?  She  may  be 
going  to  faint." 

"She  is  not  subject  to  fainting  spells," 
replied  Sophia,  but  she  followed  Amanda. 

She  found  her  in  the  room  which  they 
occupied  together,  lying  on  the  bed,  very 
pale  and  gasping.  She  leaned  over  her. 

"Amanda,  what  is  the  matter;  don't  you 
feel  well?"  she  asked. 

"I  feel  a  little  faint." 

Sophia  got  a  camphor  bottle  and  began 
rubbing  her  sister's  forehead. 

"Do  you  feel  better?"  she  said. 

Amanda  nodded. 

"I  guess  it  was  that  green  apple  pie  you 


The  Southwest  Chamber  127 

ate  this  noon,"  said  Sophia.  "I  declare, 
what  did  I  do  with  that  dress  of  Aunt 
Harriet's  ?  I  guess  if  you  feel  better  I'll  just 
run  and  get  it  and  take  it  up  garret.  I'D 
stop  in  here  again  when  I  come  down.  You'd 
better  lay  still.  Flora  can  bring  you  up  a 
cup  of  tea.  I  wouldn't  try  to  eat  any 
supper." 

Sophia's  tone  as  she  left  the  room  was  full 
of  loving  concern.  Presently  she  returned; 
she  looked  disturbed,  but  angrily  so.  There 
was  not  the  slightest  hint  of  any  fear  in 
her  expression. 

"I  want  to  know,"  said  she,  looking 
sharply  and  quickly  around,  "if  I  brought 
that  purple  dress  in  here,  after  all?" 

"I  didn't  see  you,"  replied  Amanda. 

"I  must  have.  It  isn't  in  that  chamber, 
nor  the  closet.  You  aren't  lying  on  it,  are 
you?" 

"I  lay  down  before  you  came  in,"  replied 
Amanda. 

"So  you  did.    Well,  I'll  go  and  look  again." 

Presently  Amanda  heard  her  sister's  heavy 
step  on  the  garret  stairs.  Then  she  returned 
with  a  queer  defiant  expression  on  her  face. 


123          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-busk 

"I  carried  it  up  garret,  after  all,  and  put  it 
in  the  trunk,"  said  she.  "I  declare,  I  forgot 
it.  I  suppose  your  being  faint  sort  of  put  it 
out  of  my  head.  There  it  was,  folded  up 
just  as  nice,  right  where  I  put  it." 

Sophia's  mouth  was  set ;  her  eyes  upon  her 
sister's  scared,  agitated  face  were  full  of  hard 
challenge. 

"Yes,"  murmured  Amanda. 

"I  must  go  right  down  and  see  to  that 
cake,"  said  Sophia,  going  out  of  the  room. 
"If  you  don't  feel  well,  you  pound  on  the 
floor  with  the  umbrella." 

Amanda  looked  after  her.  She  knew 
that  Sophia  had  not  put  that  purple  dress  of 
her  dead  Aunt  Harriet  in  the  trunk  in  the 
garret. 

Meantime  Miss  Louisa  Stark  was  settling 
herself  in  the  southwest  chamber.  She  un 
packed  her  trunk  and  hung  her  dresses 
carefully  in  the  closet.  She  filled  the  bureau 
drawers  with  nicely  folded  linen  and 
small  articles  of  dress.  She  was  a  very 
punctilious  woman.  She  put  on  a  black 
India  silk  dress  with  purple  flowers.  She 
combed  her  grayish-blond  hair  in  smooth 


The  Southwest  Chamber  129 

ridges  back  from  her  broad  forehead.  She 
pinned  her  lace  at  her  throat  with  a  brooch, 
very  handsome,  although  somewhat  obsolete 
— a  bunch  of  pearl  grapes  on  black  onyx, 
set  in  gold  filagree.  She  had  purchased  it 
several  years  ago  with  a  considerable  portion 
of  the  stipend  from  her  spring  term  of  school- 
teaching. 

As  she  surveyed  herself  in  the  little  swing 
mirror  surmounting  the  old-fashioned  mahog 
any  bureau  she  suddenly  bent  forward  and 
looked  closely  at  the  brooch.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  something  was  wrong  with  it.  As 
she  looked  she  became  sure.  Instead  of  the 
familiar  bunch  of  pearl  grapes  on  the  black 
onyx,  she  saw  a  knot  of  blonde  and  black 
hair  under  glass  surrounded  by  a  border  of 
twisted  gold.  She  felt  a  thrill  of  horror, 
though  she  could  not  tell  why.  She  unpinned 
the  brooch,  and  it  was  her  own  familiar  one, 
the  pearl  grapes  and  the  onyx.  "How  very 
foolish  I  am/'  she  thought.  She  thrust  the 
pin  in  the  laces  at  her  throat  and  again 
looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  there  it 
was  again — the  knot  of  blond  and  black 
hair  and  the  twisted  gold. 


130          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Louisa  Stark  looked  at  her  own  large,  firm 
face  above  the  brooch  and  it  was  full  of 
terror  and  dismay,  which  were  new  to  it. 
She  straightway  began  to  wonder  if  there 
could  be  anything  wrong  with  her  mind. 
She  remembered  that  an  aunt  of  her  mother's 
had  been  insane.  A  sort  of  fury  with  herself 
possessed  her.  She  stared  at  the  brooch 
in  the  glass  with  eyes  at  once  angry  and 
terrified.  Then  she  removed  it  again  and 
there  was  her  own  old  brooch.  Finally  she 
thrust  the  gold  pin  through  the  lace  again, 
fastened  it  and  turning  a  defiant  back  on  the 
glass,  went  down  to  supper. 

At  the  supper  table  she  met  the  other 
boarders — the  elderly  widow,  the  young 
clergyman  and  the  middle-aged  librarian. 
She  viewed  the  elderly  widow  with  reserve, 
the  clergyman  with  respect,  the  middle-aged 
librarian  with  suspicion.  The  latter  wore 
a  very  youthful  shirt-waist,  and  her  hair  in 
a  girlish  fashion  which  the  school-teacher, 
who  twisted  hers  severely  from  the  straining 
roots  at  the  nape  of  her  neck  to  the  small, 
smooth  coil  at  the  top,  condemned  as  strain 
ing  after  effects  no  longer  hers  by  right. 


The  Southwest  Chamber  131 

The  librarian,  who  had  a  quick  acridness 
of  manner,  addressed  her,  asking  what  room 
she  had,  and  asked  the  second  time  in  spite 
of  the  school-teacher's  evident  reluctance  to 
hear  her.  She  even,  since  she  sat  next  to 
her,  nudged  her  familiarly  in  her  rigid  black 
silk  side. 

"What  room  are  you  in,  Miss  Stark?" 
said  she. 

"I  am  at  a  loss  how  to  designate  the 
room,"  replied  Miss  Stark  stiffly. 

"Is  it  the  big  southwest  room?" 

"It  evidently  faces  in  that  direction," 
said  Miss  Stark. 

The  librarian,  whose  name  was  Eliza 
Lippincott,  turned  abruptly  to  Miss  Amanda 
Gill,  over  whose  delicate  face  a  curious  colour 
compounded  of  flush  and  pallour  was  stealing. 

"What  room  did  your  aunt  ctie  in,  Miss 
Amanda  ?"  asked  she  abruptly. 

Amanda  cast  a  terrified  glance  at  her 
sister,  who  was  serving  a  second  plate  of 
pudding  for  the  minister. 

"That  room,"  she  replied  feebly. 

"That's  what  I  thought,"  said  the  librarian 
with  a  certain  triumph.  "I  calculated  that 


132          The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 

must  be  the  room  she  died  in,  for  it's  the 
best  room  in  the  house,  and  you  haven't  put 
anybody  in  it  before.  Somehow  the  room  that 
anybody  has  died  in  lately  is  generally  the 
last  room  that  anybody  is  put  in.  I  suppose 
you  are  so  strong-minded  you  don't  object 
to  sleeping  in  a  room  where  anybody  died  a 
few  weeks  ago?"  she  inquired  of  Louisa 
Stark  with  sharp  eyes  on  her  face. 

"No,  I  do  not,"  replied  Miss  Stark  with 
emphasis. 

"Nor  in  the  same  bed?"  persisted  Eliza 
Lippincott  with  a  kittenish  reflection. 

The  young  minister  looked  up  from  his 
pudding.  He  was  very  spiritual,  but  he  had 
had  poor  pickings  in  his  previous  boarding 
place,  and  he  could  not  help  a  certain  abstract 
enjoyment  over  Miss  Gill's  cooking. 

"You  would  certainly  not  be  afraid,  Miss 
Lippincott?"  he  remarked,  with  his  gentle, 
almost  caressing  inflection  of  tone.  "You  do 
not  for  a  minute  believe  that  a  higher  power 
would  allow  any  manifestation  on  the  part 
of  a  disembodied  spirit — who  we  trust  is  in 
her  heavenly  home — to  harm  one  of  His 
servants?" 


The  Southwest  Chamber  133 

"Oh,  Mr.  Dunn,  of  course  not,"  replied 
Eliza  Lippincott  with  a  blush.  "Of  course 
not.  I  never  meant  to  imply " 

"I  could  not  believe  you  did,'*  said  the 
minister  gently.  He  was  very  young,  but 
he  already  had  a  wrinkle  of  permanent 
anxiety  between  his  eyes  and  a  smile  of 
permanent  ingratiation  on  his  lips.  The 
lines  of  the  smile  were  as  deeply  marked  as 
the  wrinkle. 

"Of  course  dear  Miss  Harriet  Gill  was  a 
professing  Christian,"  remarked  the  widow, 
"and  I  don't  suppose  a  professing  Christian 
would  come  back  and  scare  folks  if  she  could. 
I  wouldn't  be  a  mite  afraid  to  sleep  in  that 
room;  I'd  rather  have  it  than  the  one  I've 
got.  If  I  was  afraid  to  sleep  in  a  room  where 
a  good  woman  died,  I  wouldn't  tell  of  it. 
If  I  saw  things  or  heard  things  I'd  think 
the  fault  must  be  with  my  own  guilty  con 
science."  Then  she  turned  to  Miss  Stark. 
"Any  time  you  feel  timid  in  that  room  I'm 
ready  and  willing  to  change  with  you,"  said 
she. 

"Thank  you;  I  have  no  desire  to  change. 
I  am  perfectly  satisfied  with  my  room," 


134          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

replied  Miss  Stark  with  freezing  dignity, 
which  was  thrown  away  upon  the  widow. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "anytime,  if  you  should 
feel  timid,  you  know  what  to  do.  I've  got 
a  real  nice  room;  it  faces  east  and  gets  the 
morning  sun,  but  it  isn't  so  nice  as  yours, 
according  to  my  way  of  thinking.  I'd  rather 
take  my  chances  any  day  in  a  room  anybody 
had  died  in  than  in  one  that  was  hot  in 
summer.  I'm  more  afraid  of  a  sunstroke 
than  of  spooks,  for  my  part." 

Miss  Sophia  Gill,  who  had  not  spoken  one 
word,  but  whose  mouth  had  become  more 
and  more  rigidly  compressed,  suddenly  rose 
from  the  table,  forcing  the  minister  to  leave 
a  little  pudding,  at  which  he  glanced 
regretfully. 

Miss  Louisa  Stark  did  not  sit  down  in 
the  parlour  with  the  other  boarders.  She 
went  straight  to  her  room.  She  felt  tired 
after  her  journey,  and  meditated  a  loose 
wrapper  and  writing  a  few  letters  quietly 
before  she  went  to  bed.  Then,  too,  she  was 
conscious  of  a  feeling  that  if  she  delayed,  the 
going  there  at  all  might  assume  more 
terrifying  proportions.  She  was  full  of 


The  Southwest  Chamber  135 

defiance  against  herself  and  her  own  lurking 
weakness. 

So  she  went  resolutely  and  entered  the 
southwest  chamber.  There  was  through  the 
room  a  soft  twilight.  She  could  dimly  dis 
cern  everything,  the  white  satin  scroll-work 
on  the  wall  paper  and  the  white  counterpane 
on  the  bed  being  most  evident.  Consequently 
both  arrested  her  attention  first.  She  saw 
against  the  wall-paper  directly  facing  the 
door  the  waist  of  her  best  black  satin  dress 
hung  over  a  picture. 

"That  is  very  strange,"  she  said  to  herself, 
and  again  a  thrill  of  vague  horror  came 
over  her. 

She  knew,  or  thought  she  knew,  that 
she  had  put  that  black  satin  dress  waist 
away  nicely  folded  between  towels  in  her 
trunk.  She  was  very  choice  of  her  black 
satin  dress. 

She  took  down  the  black  waist  and  laid 
it  on  the  bed  preparatory  to  folding  it,  but 
when  she  attempted  to  do  so  she  discovered 
that  the  two  sleeves  were  firmly  sewed 
together.  Louisa  Stark  stared  at  the  sewed 
sleeves.  "What  does  this  mean?"  she  asked 


136          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

herself.  She  examined  the  sewing  carefully ; 
the  stitches  were  small,  and  even,  and 
firm,  of  black  silk. 

She  looked  around  the  room.  On  the 
stand  beside  the  bed  was  something  which 
she  had  not  noticed  before:  a  little  old- 
fashioned  work-box  with  a  picture  of  a  little 
boy  in  a  pinafore  on  the  top.  Beside  this 
work-box  lay,  as  if  just  laid  down  by  the 
user,  a  spool  of  black  silk,  a  pair  of  scissors, 
and  a  large  steel  thimble  with  a  hole  in  the 
top,  after  an  old  style.  Louisa  stared  at 
these,  then  at  the  sleeves  of  her  dress.  She 
moved  toward  the  door.  For  a  moment 
she  thought  that  this  was  something  legiti 
mate  about  which  she  might  demand  infor 
mation  ;  then  she  became  doubtful.  Suppose 
that  work-box  had  been  there  all  the  time ; 
suppose  she  had  forgotten;  suppose  she  her 
self  had  done  this  absurd  thing,  or  suppose 
that  she  had  not,  what  was  to  hinder  the 
others  from  thinking  so ;  what  was  to  hinder 
a  doubt  being  cast  upon  her  own  memory 
and  reasoning  powers  ? 

Louisa  Stark  had  been  on  the  verge  of  a 
nervous  breakdown  in  spite  of  her  iron 


The  Southwest  Chamber  137 

constitution  and  her  great  will  power.  No 
woman  can  teach  school  for  forty  years  with 
absolute  impunity.  She  was  more  credulous 
as  to  her  own  possible  failings  than  she  had 
ever  been  in  her  whole  life.  She  was  cold 
with  horror  and  terror,  and  yet  not  so  much 
horror  and  terror  of  the  supernatural  as  of 
her  own  self.  The  weakness  of  belief  in  the 
supernatural  was  nearly  impossible  for  this 
strong  nature.  She  could  more  easily  believe 
in  her  own  failing  powers. 

"I  don't  know  but  I'm  going  to  be  like 
Aunt  Marcia,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  her 
fat  face  took  on  a  long  rigidity  of  fear. 

She  started  toward  the  mirror  to  unfasten 
her  dress,  then  she  remembered  the  strange 
circumstance  of  the  brooch  and  stopped 
short.  Then  she  straightened  herself  defi 
antly  and  marched  up  to  the  bureau  and 
looked  in  the  glass.  She  saw  reflected  therein, 
fastening  the  lace  at  her  throat,  the  old- 
fashioned  thing  of  a  large  oval,  a  knot  of 
fair  and  black  hair  under  glass,  set  in  a  rim 
of  twisted  gold.  She  unfastened  it  with 
trembling  fingers  and  looked  at  it.  It  was 
her  own  brooch,  the  cluster  of  pearl  grapes 


138          The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 

on  black  onyx.  Louisa  Stark  placed  the 
trinket  in  its  little  box  on  the  nest  of  pink 
cotton  and  put  it  away  in  the  bureau  drawer. 
Only  death  could  disturb  her  habit  of  order. 

Her  fingers  were  so  cold  they  felt  fairly 
numb  as  she  unfastened  her  dress;  she 
staggered  when  she  slipped  it  over  her  head. 
She  went  to  the  closet  to  hang  it  up  and 
recoiled.  A  strong  smell  of  lovage  came 
in  her  nostrils ;  a  purple  gown  near  the  door 
swung  softly  against  her  face  as  if  impelled 
by  some  wind  from  within.  All  the  pegs 
were  filled  with  garments  not  her  own, 
mostly  of  somber  black,  but  there  were  some 
strange-patterned  silk  things  and  satins. 

Suddenly  Louisa  Stark  recovered  her 
nerve.  This,  she  told  herself,  was  something 
distinctly  tangible.  Somebody  had  been 
taking  liberties  with  her  wardrobe.  Some 
body  had  been  hanging  some  one  else's 
clothes  in  her  closet.  She  hastily  slipped  on 
her  dress  again  and  marched  straight  down 
to  the  parlour.  The  people  were  seated 
there;  the  widow  and  the  minister  were 
playing  backgammon.  The  librarian  was 
watching  them.  Miss  Amanda  Gill  was 


The  Southwest  Chamber  139 

mending  beside  the  large  lamp  on  the  centre 
table.  They  all  looked  up  with  amazement 
as  Louisa  Stark  entered.  There  was  some 
thing  strange  in  her  expression.  She  noticed 
none  of  them  except  Amanda. 

11  Where  is  your  sister?"  she  asked  per 
emptorily  of  her. 

"She's  in  the  kitchen  mixing  up  bread," 

Amanda  quavered;  "is  there  anything " 

But  the  school-teacher  was  gone. 

She  found  Sophia  Gill  standing  by  the 
kitchen  table  kneading  dough  with  dignity. 
The  young  girl  Flora  was  bringing  some 
flour  from  the  pantry.  She  stopped  and 
stared  at  Miss  Stark,  and  her  pretty, 
delicate  young  face  took  on  an  expression 
of  alarm. 

Miss  Stark  opened  at  once  upon  the 
subject  in  her  mind. 

"Miss  Gill,"  said  she,  with  her  utmost 
school-teacher  manner,  "I  wish  to  inquire 
why  you  have  had  my  own  clothes  removed 
from  the  closet  in  my  room  and  others 
substituted?" 

Sophia  Gill  stood  with  her  hands  fast  in 
the  dough,  regarding  her.  Her  own  face 


140          The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 

paled   slowly   and   reluctantly,    her   mouth 
stiffened. 

''What?  I  don't  quite  understand  what 
you  mean,  Miss  Stark,"  said  she. 

"My  clothes  are  not  in  the  closet  in  my 
room  and  it  is  full  of  things  which  do  not 
belong  to  me, ' '  said  Louisa  Stark. 

"Bring  me  that  flour,"  said  Sophia  sharply 
to  the  young  girl,  who  obeyed,  casting  timid, 
startled  glances  at  Miss  Stark  as  she  passed 
her.  Sophia  Gill  began  rubbing  her  hands 
clear  of  the  dough.  "I  am  sure  I  know 
nothing  about  it,"  she  said  with  a  certain 
tempered  asperity.  "Do  you  know  anything 
about  it,  Flora?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it, 
Aunt  Sophia,"  answered  the  young  girl, 
fluttering. 

Then  Sophia  turned  to  Miss  Stark.  "I'll 
go  upstairs  with  you,  Miss  Stark,"  said  she, 
"and  see  what  the  trouble  is.  There  must 
be  some  mistake."  She  spoke  stiffly  with 
constrained  civility. 

"Very  well,"  said  Miss  Stark  with  dignity. 
Then  she  and  Miss  Sophia  went  upstairs, 
Flora  stood  staring  after  them. 


The  Southwest  Chamber  141 

Sophia  and  Louisa  Stark  went  up  to  the 
southwest  chamber.  The  closet  door  was 
shut.  Sophia  threw  it  open,  then  she  looked 
at  Miss  Stark.  On  the  pegs  hung  the  school 
teacher's  own  garments  in  ordinary  array. 

"I  can't  see  that  there  is  anything  wrong," 
remarked  Sophia  grimly. 

Miss  Stark  strove  to  speak  but  she  could 
not.  She  sank  down  on  the  nearest  chair. 
She  did  not  even  attempt  to  defend  herself. 
She  saw  her  own  clothes  in  the  closet.  She 
knew  there  had  been  no  time  for  any  human 
being  to  remove  those  which  she  thought 
she  had  seen  and  put  hers  in  their  places. 
She  knew  it  was  impossible.  Again  the 
awful  horror  of  herself  overwhelmed  her. 

"You  must  have  been  mistaken,"  she 
heard  Sophia  say. 

She  muttered  something,  she  scarcely  knew 
what.  Sophia  then  went  out  of  the 
room.  Presently  she  undressed  and  went 
to  bed.  In  the  morning  she  did  not  go  down 
to  breakfast,  and  when  Sophia  came  to 
inquire,  requested  that  the  stage  be  ordered 
for  the  noon  train.  She  said  that  she  was 
sorry,  but  was  ill,  and  feared  lest  she  might 


142          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

be  worse,  and  she  felt  that  she  must  return 
home  at  once.  She  looked  ill,  and  could  not 
take  even  the  toast  and  tea  which  Sophia 
had  prepared  for  her.  Sophia  felt  a  certain 
pity  for  her,  but  it  was  largely  mixed  with 
indignation.  She  felt  that  she  knew  the  true 
reason  for  the  school-teacher's  illness  and 
sudden  departure,  and  it  incensed  her. 

"If  folks  are  going  to  act  like  fools  we  shall 
never  be  able  to  keep  this  house,"  she  said 
to  Amanda  after  Miss  Stark  had  gone;  and 
Amanda  knew  what  she  meant. 

Directly  the  widow,  Mrs.  Elvira  Simmons, 
knew  that  the  school-teacher  had  gone  and 
the  southwest  room  was  vacant,  she  begged 
to  have  it  in  exchange  for  her  own.  Sophia 
hesitated  a  moment;  she  eyed  the  widow 
sharply.  There  was  something  about  the 
large,  roseate  face  worn  in  firm  lines  of 
humour  and  decision  which  reassured 
her. 

''I  have  no  objection,  Mrs.  Simmons,"  said 
she,  "if " 

"If  what  ?"  asked  the  widow. 

"If  you  have  common  sense  enough  not  to 
keep  fussing  because  the  room  happens  to 


The  Southwest  Chamber  143 

be  the  one  my  aunt  died  in,'*  said  Sophia 
bluntly. 

"Fiddlesticks !"  said  the  widow,  Mrs. 
Elvira  Simmons. 

That  very  afternoon  she  moved  into  the 
southwest  chamber.  The  young  girl  Flora 
assisted  her,  though  much  against  her  will. 

"Now  I  want  you  to  carry  Mrs.  Simmons' 
dresses  into  the  closet  in  that  room  and  hang 
them  up  nicely,  and  see  that  she  has  every 
thing  she  wants,"  said  Sophia  Gill.  "And 
you  can  change  the  bed  and  put  on  fresh 
sheets.  What  are  you  looking  at  me  that 
way  for?" 

"Oh,  Aunt  Sophia,  can't  I  do  something 
else?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  something  else 
for?" 

"I  am  afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?  I  should  think  you'd 
hang  your  head.  No ;  you  go  right  in  there 
and  do  what  I  tell  you." 

Pretty  soon  Flora  came  running  into  the 
sitting-room  where  Sophia  was,  as  pale  as 
death,  and  in  her  hand  she  held  a  queer,  old- 
fashioned  frilled  nightcap. 


144          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"What's  that  ?"  demanded  Sophia. 

"I  found  it  under  the  pillow." 

"What  pillow?" 

"In  the  southwest  room." 

Sophia  took  it  and  looked  at  it  sternly. 

"It's  Great-aunt  Harriet's,"  said  Flora 
faintly. 

"You  run  down  street  and  do  that  errand 
at  the  grocer's  for  me  and  I'll  see  that  room," 
said  Sophia  with  dignity.  She  carried  the 
nightcap  away  and  put  it  in  the  trunk  in 
the  garret  where  she  had  supposed  it  stored 
with  the  rest  of  the  dead  woman's  belongings. 
Then  she  went  into  the  southwest  chamber 
and  made  the  bed  and  assisted  Mrs.  Simmons 
to  move,  and  there  was  no  further  incident. 

The  widow  was  openly  triumphant  over 
her  new  room.  She  talked  a  deal  about  it  at 
the  dinner-table. 

"It  is  the  best  room  in  the  house,  and 
I  expect  you  all  to  be  envious  of  me," 
said  she. 

"And  you  are  sure  you  don't  feel  afraid  of 
ghosts  ?"  said  the  librarian. 

"Ghosts  !"  repeated  the  widow  with  scorn. 
"If  a  ghost  comes  I'll  send  her  over  to  you. 


The  Southwest  Chamber  145 

You  are  just  across  the  hall  from  the  south 
west  room." 

r'You  needn't,"  returned  Eliza  Lippincott 
with  a  shudder.  "I  wouldn't  sleep  in  that 

room,  after "  she  checked  herself  with  an 

eye  on  the  minister. 

"  After  what  ?"  asked  the  widow. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Eliza  Lippincott  in  an 
embarrassed  fashion. 

"I  trust  Miss  Lippincott  has  too  good 
sense  and  too  great  faith  to  believe  in  any 
thing  of  that  sort,"  said  the  minister. 

"I  trust  so,  too,"  replied  Eliza  hurriedly. 

"You  did  see  or  hear  something — now 
what  was  it,  I  want  to  know?"  said  the 
widow  that  evening  when  they  were  alone  in 
the  parlour.  The  minister  had  gone  to  make 
a  call. 

Eliza  hesitated. 

"What  was  it?"  insisted  the  widow. 

"Well,"  said  Eliza  hesitatingly,  "if  you'll 
promise  not  to  tell." 

"Yes,  I  promise ;  what  was  it  ?" 

"Well,  one  day  last  week,  just  before  the 
school-teacher  came,  I  went  in  that  room 
to  see  if  there  were  any  clouds.  I  wanted 


146          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

to  wear-  my  gray  dress,  and  I  was  afraid  it 
was  going  to  rain,  so  I  wanted  to  look 
at  the  sky  at  all  points,  so  I  went  in  there, 
and " 

1  'And  what?" 

"Well,  you  know  that  chintz  over  the  bed, 
and  the  valance,  and  the  easy  chair;  what 
pattern  should  you  say  it  was  ?" 

"Why,  peacocks  on  a  blue  ground.  Good 
land,  I  shouldn't  think  any  one  who  had  ever 
seen  that  would  forget  it." 

"Peacocks  on  a  blue  ground,  you  are 
sure?" 

"Of  course  I  am.     Why?" 

"Only  when  I  went  in  there  that  afternoon 
it  was  not  peacocks  on  a  blue  ground;  it 
was  great  red  roses  on  a  yellow  ground." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"What  I  say." 

"Did  Miss  Sophia  have  it  changed?" 

"No.  I  went  in  there  again  an  hour  later 
and  the  peacocks  were  there." 

"You  didn't  see  straight  the  first  time." 

"I  expected  you  would  say  that." 

"The  peacocks  are  there  now;  I  saw  them 
just  now." 


The  Southwest  Chamber  147 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so;  I  suppose  they  flew 
back." 

"But  they  couldn't." 

"Looks  as  if  they  did." 

"Why,  how  could  such  a  thing  be?  It 
couldn't  be." 

"Well,  all  I  know  is  those  peacocks  were 
gone  for  an  hour  that  afternoon  and  the 
red  roses  on  the  yellow  ground  were  there 
instead." 

The  widow  stared  at  her  a  moment,  then 
she  began  to  laugh  rather  hysterically. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "I  guess  I  sha'n't  give  up 
my  nice  room  for  any  such  tomfoolery  as 
that.  I  guess  I  would  just  as  soon  have  red 
roses  on  a  yellow  ground  as  peacocks  on  a 
blue ;  but  there's  no  use  talking,  you  couldn't 
have  seen  straight.  How  could  such  a  thing 
have  happened  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Eliza  Lippincott; 
"but  I  know  I  wouldn't  sleep  in  that  room 
if  you'd  give  me  a  thousand  dollars." 

"Well,  I  would,"  said  the  widow,  "and  I'm 
going  to." 

When  Mrs.  Simmons  went  to  the  southwest 
chamber  that  night  she  cast  a  glance  at  the 


148          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

bed-hanging  and  the  easy  chair.  There 
were  the  peacocks  on  the  blue  ground.  She 
gave  a  contemptuous  thought  to  Eliza 
Lippincott. 

"I  don't  believe  but  she's  getting  nerv 
ous,"  she  thought.  "I  wonder  if  any  of 
her  family  have  been  out  at  all." 

But  just  before  Mrs.  Simmons  was  ready 
to  get  into  bed  she  looked  again  at  the  hang 
ings  and  the  easy  chair,  and  there  were  the 
red  roses  on  the  yellow  ground  instead  of  the 
peacocks  on  the  blue.  She  looked  long  and 
sharply.  Then  she  shut  her  eyes,  and  then 
opened  them  and  looked.  She  still  saw  the 
red  roses.  Then  she  crossed  the  room, 
turned  her  back  to  the  bed,  and  looked  out  at 
the  night  from  the  south  window.  It  was 
clear  and  the  full  moon  was  shining.  She 
watched  it  a  moment  sailing  over  the  dark 
blue  in  its  nimbus  of  gold.  Then  she  looked 
around  at  the  bed  hangings.  She  still  saw 
the  red  roses  on  the  yellow  ground. 

Mrs.  Simmons  was  struck  in  her  most 
venerable  point.  This  apparent  contradic 
tion  of  the  reasonable  as  manifested  in  such 
a  commonplace  thing  as  chintz  of  a  bed- 


The  Southwest  Chamber  149 

hanging  affected  this  ordinarily  unimagina 
tive  woman  as  no  ghostly  appearance  could 
have  done.  Those  red  roses  on  the  yellow 
ground  were  to  her  much  more  ghostly  than 
any  strange  figure  clad  in  the  white  robes  of 
the  grave  entering  the  room. 

She  took  a  step  toward  the  door,  then  she 
turned  with  a  resolute  air.  "As  for  going 
downstairs  and  owning  up  I'm  scared  and 
having  that  Lippincott  girl  crowing  over  me, 
I  won't  for  any  red  roses  instead  of  peacocks. 
I  guess  they  can't  hurt  me,  and  as  long  as 
we've  both  of  us  seen  'em  I  guess  we  can't 
both  be  getting  loony,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Elvira  Simmons  blew  out  her  light  and 
got  into  bed  and  lay  staring  out  between  the 
chintz  hangings  at  the  moonlit  room.  She 
said  her  prayers  in  bed  always  as  being  more 
comfortable,  and  presumably  just  as  accept 
able  in  the  ease  of  a  faithful  servant  with  a 
stout  habit  of  body.  Then  after  a  little  she 
fell  asleep ;  she  was  of  too  practical  a  nature 
to  be  kept  long  awake  by  anything  which  had 
no  power  of  actual  bodily  effect  upon  her. 
No  stress  of  the  spirit  had  ever  disturbed  her 
slumbers.  So  she  slumbered  between  the 


150         The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

red  roses,  or  the  peacocks,  she  did  not  know 
which. 

But  she  was  awakened  about  midnight  by 
a  strange  sensation  in  her  throat.  She  had 
dreamed  that  some  one  with  long  white 
fingers  was  strangling  her,  and  she  saw 
bending  over  her  the  face  of  an  old  woman 
in  a  white  cap.  When  she  waked  there  was 
no  old  woman,  the  room  was  almost  as  light 
as  day  in  the  full  moonlight,  and  looked 
very  peaceful;  but  the  strangling  sensation 
at  her  throat  continued,  and  besides  that, 
her  face  and  ears  felt  muffled.  She  put  up 
her  hand  and  felt  that  her  head  was  covered 
with  a  ruffled  nightcap  tied  under  her  chin 
so  tightly  that  it  was  exceedingly  uncom 
fortable.  A  great  qualm  of  horror  shot 
over  her.  She  tore  the  thing  off  frantically 
and  flung  it  from  her  with  a  convulsive  effort 
as  if  it  had  been  a  spider.  She  gave,  as  she 
did  so,  a  quick,  short  scream  of  terror.  She 
sprang  out  of  bed  and  was  going  toward 
the  door,  when  she  stopped. 

It  had  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  Eliza 
Lippincott  might  have  entered  the  room  and 
tied  on  the  cap  while  she  was  asleep.  She 


The  Southwest  Chamber  151 

had  not  locked  her  door.  She  looked  in  the 
closet,  under  the  bed ;  there  was  no  one  there. 
Then  she  tried  to  open  the  door,  but  to  her 
astonishment  found  that  it  was  locked — 
bolted  on  the  inside.  "I  must  have  locked 
it,  after  all,"  she  reflected  with  wonder,  for 
she  never  locked  her  door.  Then  she  could 
scarcely  conceal  from  herself  that  there  was 
something  out  of  the  usual  about  it  all. 
Certainly  no  one  could  have  entered  the 
room  and  departed  locking  the  door  on  the 
inside.  She  could  not  control  the  long  shiver 
of  horror  that  crept  over  her,  but  she  was 
still  resolute.  She  resolved  that  she  would 
throw  the  cap  out  of  the  window.  "I'll  see 
if  I  have  tricks  like  that  played  on  me,  I 
don't  care  who  does  it,"  said  she  quite  aloud. 
She  was  still  unable  to  believe  wholly  in  the 
supernatural.  The  idea  of  some  human 
agency  was  still  in  her  mind,  filling  her  with 
anger. 

She  went  toward  the  spot  where  she  had 
thrown  the  cap — she  had  stepped  over  it  on 
her  way  to  the  door — but  it  was  not  there. 
She  searched  the  whole  room,  lighting  her 
lamp,  but  she  could  not  find  the  cap.  Finally 


152          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

she  gave  it  up.  She  extinguished  her  lamp 
and  went  back  to  bed.  She  fell  asleep  again, 
to  be  again  awakened  in  the  same  fashion. 
That  time  she  tore  off  the  cap  as  before,  but 
she  did  not  fling  it  on  the  floor  as  before. 
Instead  she  held  to  it  with  a  fierce  grip. 
Her  blood  was  up. 

Holding  fast  to  the  white  flimsy  thing,  she 
sprang  out  of  bed,  ran  to  the  window  which 
was  open,  slipped  the  screen,  and  flung  it 
out ;  but  a  sudden  gust  of  wind,  though  the 
night  was  calm,  arose  and  it  floated  back  in 
her  face.  She  brushed  it  aside  like  a  cob 
web  and  she  clutched  at  it.  She  was  actually 
furious.  It  eluded  her  clutching  fingers. 
Then  she  did  not  see  it  at  all.  She  examined 
the  floor,  she  lighted  her  lamp  again  and 
searched,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  it. 

Mrs.  Simmons  was  then  in  such  a  rage  that 
all  terror  had  disappeared  for  the  time.  She 
did  not  know  with  what  she  was  angry,  but 
she  had  a  sense  of  some  mocking  presence 
which  was  silently  proving  too  strong  against 
her  weakness,  and  she  was  aroused  to  the 
utmost  power  of  resistance.  To  be  baffled 
like  this  and  resisted  by  something  which 


The  Southwest  Chamber  153 

was  as  nothing  to  her  straining  senses  rilled 
her  with  intensest  resentment. 

Finally  she  got  back  into  bed  again;  she 
did  not  go  to  sleep.  She  felt  strangely 
drowsy,  but  she  fought  against  it.  She  was 
wide  awake,  staring  at  the  moonlight,  when 
she  suddenly  felt  the  soft  white  strings  of  the 
thing  tighten  around  her  throat  and  realized 
that  her  enemy  was  again  upon  her.  She 
seized  the  strings,  untied  them,  twitched 
off  the  cap,  ran  with  it  to  the  table  where 
her  scissors  lay  and  furiously  cut  it  into 
small  bits  She  cut  and  tore,  feeling  an 
insane  fury  of  gratification. 

"There !"  said  she  quite  aloud.  "I  guess 
I  sha'n't  have  any  more  trouble  with  this 
old  cap." 

She  tossed  the  bits  of  muslin  into  a  basket 
and  went  back  to  bed.  Almost  immediately 
she  felt  the  soft  strings  tighten  around  her 
throat.  Then  at  last  she  yielded,  vanquished. 
This  new  refutal  of  all  laws  of  reason  by  which 
she  had  learned,  as  it  were,  to  spell  her 
theory  of  life,  was  too  much  for  her  equili 
brium.  She  pulled  off  the  clinging  strings 
feebly,  drew  the  thing  from  her  head,  slid 


154         The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

weakly  out  of  bed,  caught  up  her  wrapper  and 
hastened  out  of  the  room.  She  went  noise 
lessly  along  the  hall  to  her  own  old  room: 
she  entered,  got  into  her  familiar  bed,  and 
lay  there  the  rest  of  the  night  shuddering 
and  listening,  and  if  she  dozed,  waking  with 
a  start  at  the  feeling  of  the  pressure  upon  her 
throat  to  find  that  it  was  not  there,  yet  still 
to  be  unable  to  shake  off  entirely  the  horror. 

When  daylight  came  she  crept  back  to  the 
southwest  chamber  and  hurriedly  got  some 
clothes  in  which  to  dress  herself.  It  took  all 
her  resolution  to  enter  the  room,  but  nothing 
unusual  happened  while  she  was  there.  She 
hastened  back  to  her  old  chamber,  dressed 
herself  and  went  down  to  breakfast  with 
an  imperturbable  face.  Her  colour  had  not 
faded.  When  asked  by  Eliza  Lippincott 
how  she  had  slept,  she  replied  with  an 
appearance  of  calmness  which  was  bewil 
dering  that  she  had  not  slept  very  well.  She 
never  did  sleep  very  well  in  a  new  bed,  and 
she  thought  she  would  go  back  to  her  old 
room. 

Eliza  Lippincott  was  not  deceived,  how 
ever,  neither  were  the  Gill  sisters,  nor  the 


The  Southwest  Chamber  155 

young  girl,  Flora.     Eliza   Lippincott  spoke 
out  bluntly. 

"You  needn't  talk  to  me  about  sleeping 
well,"  said  she.  "I  know  something  queer 
happened  in  that  room  last  night  by  the  way 
you  act." 

They  all  looked  at  Mrs.  Simmons,  in 
quiringly — the  librarian  with  malicious  curi 
osity  and  triumph,  the  minister  with  sad 
incredulity,  Sophia  Gill  with  fear  and  indig 
nation,  Amanda  and  the  young  girl  with 
unmixed  terror.  The  widow  bore  herself 
with  dignity. 

"I  saw  nothing  nor  heard  nothing  which  I 
trust  could  not  have  been  accounted  for  in 
some  rational  manner,"  said  she. 

"What  was  it  ?"  persisted  Eliza  Lippincott. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  discuss  the  matter  any 
further,"  replied  Mrs.  Simmons  shortly. 
Then  she  passed  her  plate  for  more  creamed 
potato.  She  felt  that  she  would  die  before 
she  confessed  to  the  ghastly  absurdity  of 
that  nightcap,  or  to  having  been  disturbed 
by  the  flight  of  peacocks  off  a  blue  field  of 
chintz  after  she  had  scoffed  at  the  possibility 
of  such  a  thing.  She  left  the  whole  matter 


156         The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

so  vague  that  in  a  fashion  she  came  off  the 
mistress  of  the  situation.  She  at  all  events 
impressed  everybody  by  her  coolness  in  the 
face  of  no  one  knew  what  nightly  terror. 

After  breakfast,  with  the  assistance  of 
Amanda  and  Flora,  she  moved  back  into  her 
old  room.  Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken 
during  the  process  of  moving,  but  they  all 
worked  with  trembling  haste  and  looked 
guilty  when  they  met  one  another's  eyes,  as 
if  conscious  of  betraying  a  common  fear. 

That  afternoon  the  young  minister,  John 
Dunn,  went  to  Sophia  Gill  and  requested 
permission  to  occupy  the  southwest  chamber 
that  night. 

"I  don't  ask  to  have  my  effects  moved 
there,"  said  he,  "for  I  could  scarcely  afford 
a  room  so  much  superior  to  the  one  I  now 
occupy,  but  I  would  like,  if  you  please, 
to  sleep  there  to-night  for  the  purpose  of 
refuting  in  my  own  person  any  unfortunate 
superstition  which  may  have  obtained  root 
here." 

Sophia  Gill  thanked  the  minister  gratefully 
and  eagerly  accepted  his  offer. 

"How  anybody  with  common  sense  can 


The  Southwest  Chamber  157 

believe  for  a  minute  in  any  such  nonsense 
passes  my  comprehension,"  said  she. 

"It  certainly  passes  mine  how  anybody 
with  Christain  faith  can  believe  in  ghosts," 
said  the  minister  gently,  and  Sophia  Gill  felt 
a  certain  feminine  contentment  in  hearing 
him.  The  minister  was  a  child  to  her;  she 
regarded  him  with  no  tincture  of  sentiment, 
and  yet  she  loved  to  hear  two  other  women 
covertly  condemned  by  him  and  she  herself 
thereby  exalted. 

That  night  about  twelve  o'clock  the 
Reverend  John  Dunn  essayed  to  go  to  his 
nightly  slumber  in  the  southwest  chamber. 
He  had  been  sitting  up  until  that  hour  pre 
paring  his  sermon. 

He  traversed  the  hall  with  a  little  night- 
lamp  in  his  hand,  opened  the  door  of  the 
southwest  chamber,  and  essayed  to  enter. 
He  might  as  well  have  essayed  to  enter  the 
solid  side  of  a  house.  He  could  not  believe 
his  senses.  The  door  was  certainly  open ;  he 
could  look  into  the  room  full  of  soft  lights  and 
shadows  under  the  moonlight  which  streamed 
into  the  windows.  He  could  see  the  bed  in 
which  he  had  expected  to  pass  the  night, 


158          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

but  he  could  not  enter.  Whenever  he  strove 
to  do  so  he  had  a  curious  sensation  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  press  against  an  invisible 
person  who  met  him  with  a  force  of  opposition 
impossible  to  overcome.  The  minister  was 
not  an  athletic  man,  yet  he  had  considerable 
strength.  He  squared  his  elbows,  set  his 
mouth  hard,  and  strove  to  push  his  way 
through  into  the  room.  The  opposition 
which  he  met  was  as  sternly  and  mutely 
terrible  as  the  rocky  fastness  of  a  mountain 
in  his  way. 

For  a  half  hour  John  Dunn,  doubting, 
raging,  overwhelmed  with  spiritual  agony  as 
to  the  state  of  his  own  soul  rather  than  fear, 
strove  to  enter  that  southwest  chamber. 
He  was  simply  powerless  against  this  uncanny 
obstacle.  Finally  a  great  horror  as  of  evil 
itself  came  over  him.  He  was  a  nervous 
man  and  very  young.  He  fairly  fled  to  his 
own  chamber  and  locked  himself  in  like  a 
terror-stricken  girl. 

The  next  morning  he  went  to  Miss  Gill  and 
told  her  frankly  what  had  happened,  and 
begged  her  to  say  nothing  about  it  lest  he 
should  have  injured  the  cause  by  the  betrayal 


The  Southwest  Chamber  159 

of  such  weakness,  for  he  actually  had  come 
to  believe  that  there  was  something  wrong 
with  the  room. 

"What  it  is  I  know  not,  Miss  Sophia," 
said  he,  "but  I  firmly  believe,  against  my 
will,  that  there  is  in  that  room  some 
accursed  evil  power  at  work,  of  which 
modern  faith  and  modern  science  know 
nothing." 

Miss  Sophia  Gill  listened  with  grimly 
lowering  face.  She  had  an  inborn  respect 
for  the  clergy,  but  she  was  bound  to  hold 
that  southwest  chamber  in  the  dearly  beloved 
old  house  of  her  fathers  free  of  blame. 

"I  think  I  will  sleep  in  that  room  myself 
to-night,"  she  said,  when  the  minister  had 
finished. 

He  looked  at  her  in  doubt  and  dismay. 

"I  have  great  admiration  for  your  faith 
and  courage,  Miss  Sophia,"  he  said,  "but  are 
you  wise?" 

"I  am  fully  resolved  to  sleep  in  that  room 
to-night,"  said  she  conclusively.  There  were 
occasions  when  Miss  Sophia  Gill  could  put 
on  a  manner  of  majesty,  and  she  did  now. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  that  night  when  Sophia 


160          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Gill  entered  the  southwest  chamber.  She 
had  told  her  sister  what  she  intended  doing 
and  had  been  proof  against  her  tearful 
entreaties.  Amanda  was  charged  not  to 
tell  the  young  girl,  Flora. 

"There  is  no  use  in  frightening  that  child 
over  nothing,"  said  Sophia. 

Sophia,  when  she  entered  the  southwest 
chamber,  set  the  lamp  which  she  carried  on 
the  bureau,  and  began  moving  about  the 
room,  pulling  down  the  curtains,  taking  off 
the  nice  white  counterpane  of  the  bed,  and 
preparing  generally  for  the  night. 

As  she  did  so,  moving  with  great  coolness 
and  deliberation,  she  became  conscious  that 
she  was  thinking  some  thoughts  that  were 
foreign  to  her.  She  began  remembering 
what  she  could  not  have  remembered,  since 
she  was  not  then  born :  the  trouble  over  her 
mother's  marriage,  the  bitter  opposition, 
the  shutting  the  door  upon  her,  the  ostra 
cizing  her  from  heart  and  home.  She  became 
aware  of  a  most  singular  sensation  as  of 
bitter  resentment  herself,  and  not  against 
the  mother  and  sister  who  had  so  treated  her 
own  mother,  but  against  her  own  mother, 


The  Southwest  Chamber  161 

and  then  she  became  aware  of  a  like  bitter 
ness  extended  to  her  own  self.  She  felt 
malignant  toward  her  mother  as  a  young 
girl  whom  she  remembered,  though  she  could 
not  have  remembered,  and  she  felt  malignant 
toward  her  own  self,  and  her  sister  Amanda, 
and  Flora.  Evil  suggestions  surged  in  her 
brain — suggestions  which  turned  her  heart  to 
stone  and  which  still  fascinated  her.  And 
all  the  time  by  a  sort  of  double  consciousness 
she  knew  that  what  she  thought  was  strange 
and  not  due  to  her  own  volition.  She  knew 
that  she  was  thinking  the  thoughts  of  some 
other  person,  and  she  knew  who.  She  felt 
herself  possessed. 

But  there  was  tremendous  strength  in  the 
woman's  nature.  She  had  inherited  strength 
for  good  and  righteous  self-assertion,  from 
the  evil  strength  of  her  ancestors.  They 
had  turned  their  own  weapons  against  them 
selves.  She  made  an  effort  which  seemed 
almost  mortal,  but  was  conscious  that  the 
hideous  thing  was  gone  from  her.  She 
thought  her  own  thoughts.  Then  she  scouted 
to  herself  the  idea  of  anything  supernatural 
about  the  terrific  experience.  "I  am  imagin- 


1 62          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

ing  everything,"  she  told  herself.  She  went 
on  with  her  preparations;  she  went  to  the 
bureau  to  take  down  her  hair.  She  looked 
in  the  glass  and  saw,  instead  of  her  softly 
parted  waves  of  hair,  harsh  lines  of  iron-gray 
under  the  black  borders  of  an  old-fashioned 
head-dress.  She  saw  instead  of  her  smooth, 
broad  forehead,  a  high  one  wrinkled  with  the 
intensest  concentration  of  selfish  reflections 
of  a  long  life;  she  saw  instead  of  her  steady 
blue  eyes,  black  ones  with  depths  of  malig 
nant  reserve,  behind  a  broad  meaning  of  ill 
will ;  she  saw  instead  of  her  firm,  benevolent 
mouth  one  with  a  hard,  thin  line,  a  network 
of  melancholic  wrinkles.  She  saw  instead 
of  her  own  face,  middle-aged  and  good  to  see, 
the  expression  of  a  life  of  honesty  and  good 
will  to  others  and  patience  under  trials, 
the  face  of  a  very  old  woman  scowling  forever 
with  unceasing  hatred  and  misery  at  herself 
and  all  others,  at  life,  and  death,  at  that 
which  had  been  and  that  which  was  to  come. 
She  saw  instead  of  her  own  face  in  the  glass, 
the  face  of  her  dead  Aunt  Harriet,  topping 
her  own  shoulders  in  her  own  well-known 
dress ! 


"  She  saw  instead  of  her  own  face  in  the  glass,  the  face  of  her 
dead  Aunt  Harriet!" 


The  Southwest  Chamber  163 

Sophia  Gill  left  the  room.  She  went  into 
the  one  which  she  shared  with  her  sister 
Amanda.  Amanda  looked  up  and  saw  her 
standing  there.  She  had  set  the  lamp  on 
a  table,  and  she  stood  holding  a  handker 
chief  over  her  face.  Amanda  looked  at  her 
with  terror. 

"  What  is  it?  What  is  it,  Sophia?"  she 
gasped. 

Sophia  still  stood  with  the  handkerchief 
pressed  to  her  face. 

"Oh,  Sophia,  let  me  call  somebody.  Is 
your  face  hurt  ?  Sophia,  what  is  the  matter 
with  your  face?"  fairly  shrieked  Amanda. 

Suddenly  Sophia  took  the  handkerchief 
from  her  face. 

"Look  at  me,  Amanda  Gill,"  she  said  in  an 
awful  voice. 

Amanda  looked,  shrinking. 

"What  is  it  ?  Oh,  what  is  it  ?  You  don't 
look  hurt.  What  is  it,  Sophia?" 

"What  do  you  see?" 

"Why,  I  see  you." 

"Me?" 

"Yes,  you.  What  did  you  think  I  would 
see?" 


164         The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Sophia  Gill  looked  at  her  sister. 

"  Never  as  long  as  I  live  will  I  tell  you  what 
I  thought  you  would  see,  and  you  must  never 
ask  me,"  said  she. 

"Well,  I  never  will,  Sophia,"  replied 
Amanda,  half  weeping  with  terror. 

"You  won't  try  to  sleep  in  that  room 
again,  Sophia?" 

"No,"  said  Sophia;  "and  I  am  going  to  sell 
this  house." 


THE   VACANT   LOT 


THE  VACANT  LOT 

WHEN  it  became  generally  known  in 
Townsend  Centre  that  the  Town- 
sends  were  going  to  move  to  the 
city,  there  was  great  excitement  and  dismay. 
For  the  Townsends  to  move  was  about 
equivalent  to  the  town's  moving.  The 
Townsend  ancestors  had  founded  the  village 
a  hundred  years  ago.  The  first  Townsend 
had  kept  a  wayside  hostelry  for  man  and 
beast,  known  as  the  "Sign  of  the  Leopard." 
The  sign-board,  on  which  the  leopard  was 
painted  a  bright  blue,  was  still  extant,  and 
prominently  so,  being  nailed  over  the  present 
Townsend's  front  door.  This  Townsend, 
by  name  David,  kept  the  village  store. 
There  had  been  no  tavern  since  the  railroad 
was  built  through  Townsend  Centre  in  his 
father's  day.  Therefore  the  family,  being 
ousted  by  the  march  of  progress  from  their 
chosen  employment,  took  up  with  a  general 
country  store  as  being  the  next  thing  to  a 


1 68          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

country  tavern,  the  principal  difference 
consisting  in  the  fact  that  all  the  guests 
were  transients,  never  requiring  bedcham 
bers,  securing  their  rest  on  the  tops  of  sugar 
and  flour  barrels  and  codfish  boxes,  and 
their  refreshment  from  stray  nibblings  at 
the  stock  in  trade,  to  the  profitless  deplen- 
ishment  of  raisins  and  loaf  sugar  and  crackers 
and  cheese. 

The  flitting  of  the  Townsends  from  the 
home  of  their  ancestors  was  due  to  a  sudden 
access  of  wealth  from  the  death  of  a  relative 
and  the  desire  of  Mrs.  Townsend  to  secure 
better  advantages  for  her  son  George,  sixteen 
years  old,  in  the  way  of  education,  and  for 
her  daughter  Adrianna,  ten  years  older, 
better  matrimonial  opportunities.  However, 
this  last  inducement  for  leaving  Townsend 
Centre  was  not  openly  stated,  only  ingen 
iously  surmised  by  the  neighbours. 

"Sarah  Townsend  don't  think  there's 
anybody  in  Townsend  Centre  fit  for  her 
Adrianna  to  marry,  and  so  she's  goin'  to  take 
her  to  Boston  to  see  if  she  can't  pick  up 
somebody  there,"  they  said.  Then  they 
wondered  what  Abel  Lyons  would  do.  He 


The  Vacant  Lot  169 

had  been  a  humble  suitor  for  Adrianna  for 
years,  but  her  mother  had  not  approved, 
and  Adrianna,  who  was  dutiful,  had  repulsed 
him  delicately  and  rather  sadly.  He  was 
the  only  lover  whom  she  had  ever  had,  and 
she  felt  sorry  and  grateful ;  she  was  a  plain, 
awkward  girl,  and  had  a  patient  recognition 
of  the  fact. 

But  her  mother  was  ambitious,  more  so 
than  her  father,  who  was  rather  pugnaciously 
satisfied  with  what  he  had,  and  not  easily 
disposed  to  change.  However,  he  yielded 
to  his  wife  and  consented  to  sell  out  his 
business  and  purchase  a  house  in  Boston  and 
move  there. 

David  Townsend  was  curiously  unlike 
the  line  of  ancestors  from  whom  he  had  come. 
He  had  either  retrograded  or  advanced,  as 
one  might  look  at  it.  His  moral  character 
was  certainly  better,  but  he  had  not  the  fiery 
spirit  and  eager  grasp  at  advantage  which 
had  distinguished  them.  Indeed,  the  old 
Townsends,  though  prominent  and  respected 
as  men  of  property  and  influence,  had  reputa 
tions  not  above  suspicions.  There  was  more 
than  one  dark  whisper  regarding  them 


170          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

handed  down  from  mother  to  son  in  the 
village,  and  especially  was  this  true  of  the 
first  Townsend,  he  who  built  the  tavern 
bearing  the  Sign  of  the  Blue  Leopard.  His 
portrait,  a  hideous  effort  of  contemporary 
art,  hung  in  the  garret  of  David  Townsend' s 
home.  There  was  many  a  tale  of  wild 
roistering,  if  no  worse,  in  that  old  roadhouse, 
and  high  stakes,  and  quarreling  in  cups, 
and  blows,  and  money  gotten  in  evil  fashion, 
and  the  matter  hushed  up  with  a  high  hand 
for  inquirers  by  the  imperious  Townsends 
who  terrorized  everybody.  David  Townsend 
terrorized  nobody.  He  had  gotten  his  little 
competence  from  his  store  by  honest  methods 
—the  exchanging  of  sterling  goods  and  true 
weights  for  country  produce  and  country 
shillings.  He  was  sober  and  reliable,  with 
intense  self-respect  and  a  decided  talent  for 
the  management  of  money.  It  was  princi 
pally  for  this  reason  that  he  took  great 
delight  in  his  sudden  wealth  by  legacy.  He 
had  thereby  greater  opportunities  for  the 
exercise  of  his  native  shrewdness  in  a  bar 
gain.  This  he  evinced  in  his  purchase  of  a 
house  in  Boston. 


The  Vacant  Lot  171 

One  day  in  spring  the  old  Townsend  house 
was  shut  up,  the  Blue  Leopard  was  taken 
carefully  down  from  his  lair  over  the  front 
door,  the  family  chattels  were  loaded  on  the 
train,  and  the  Townsends  departed.  It  was 
a  sad  and  eventful  day  for  Townsend  Centre. 
A  man  from  Barre  had  rented  the  store — 
David  had  decided  at  the  last  not  to  sell — 
and  the  old  familiars  congregated  in  melan 
choly  fashion  and  talked  over  the  situation. 
An  enormous  pride  over  their  departed 
townsman  became  evident.  They  paraded 
him,  flaunting  him  like  a  banner  in  the  eyes 
of  the  new  man.  "David  is  awful  smart," 
they  said;  "there  won't  nobody  get  the 
better  of  him  in  the  city  if  he  has  lived  in 
Townsend  Centre  all  his  life.  He's  got  his 
eyes  open.  Know  what  he  paid  for  his 
house  in  Boston  ?  Well,  sir,  that  house  cost 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  and  David  he 
bought  it  for  five.  Yes,  sir,  he  did. " 

"Must  have  been  some  out  about  it," 
remarked  the  new  man,  scowling  over  his 
counter.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  his 
disparaging  situation. 

"Not  an  out,  sir.     David  he  made   sure 


172          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

on't.  Catch  him  gettin'  bit.  Everythin' 
was  in  apple-pie  order,  hot  an'  cold  water 
and  all,  and  in  one  of  the  best  locations  of 
the  city — real  high-up  street.  David  he 
said  the  rent  in  that  street  was  never  under 
a  thousand.  Yes,  sir,  David  he  got  a 
bargain — five  thousand  dollars  for  a  twenty- 
five-thousand-dollar  house." 

"Some  out  about  it !"  growled  the  new 
man  over  the  counter. 

However,  as  his  fellow  townsmen  and  allies 
stated,  there  seemed  to  be  no  doubt  about 
the  desirableness  of  the  city  house  which 
David  Townsend  had  purchased  and  the 
fact  that  he  had  secured  it  for  an  absurdly 
low  price.  The  whole  family  were  at  first 
suspicious.  It  was  ascertained  that  the  house 
had  cost  a  round  sum  only  a  few  years  ago ; 
it  was  in  perfect  repair;  nothing  whatever 
was  amiss  with  plumbing,  furnace,  any 
thing.  There  was  not  even  a  soap  factory 
within  smelling  distance,  as  Mrs.  Townsend 
had  vaguely  surmised.  She  was  sure  that 
she  had  heard  of  houses  being  undesirable 
for  such  reasons,  but  there  was  no  soap 
factory.  They  all  sniffed  and  peeked ;  when 


The  Vacant  Lot  173 

the  first  rainfall  came  they  looked  at  the 
ceiling,  confidently  expecting  to  see  dark 
spots  where  the  leaks  had  commenced,  but 
there  were  none.  They  were  forced  to  confess 
that  their  suspicions  were  allayed,  that  the 
house  was  perfect,  even  overshadowed  with 
the  mystery  of  a  lower  price  than  it  was 
worth.  That,  however,  was  an  additional 
perfection  in  the  opinion  of  the  Townsends, 
who  had  their  share  of  New  England  thrift. 
They  had  lived  just  one  month  in  their  new 
house,  and  were  happy,  although  at  times 
somewhat  lonely  from  missing  the  society 
of  Townsend  Centre,  when  the  trouble  began. 
The  Townsends,  although  they  lived  in  a  fine 
house  in  a  genteel,  almost  fashionable,  part 
of  the  city,  were  true  to  their  antecedents 
and  kept,  as  they  had  been  accustomed,  only 
one  maid.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  farmer 
on  the  outskirts  of  their  native  village,  was 
middle-aged,  and  had  lived  with  them  for 
the  last  ten  years.  One  pleasant  Monday 
morning  she  rose  early  and  did  the  family 
washing  before  breakfast,  which  had  been 
prepared  by  Mrs.  Townsend  and  Adrianna,  as 
was  their  habit  on  washing-days.  The  family 


i74          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

were  seated  at  the  breakfast  table  in  their 
basement  dining-room,  and  this  maid,  whose 
name  was  Cordelia,  was  hanging  out  the 
clothes  in  the  vacant  lot.  This  vacant  lot 
seemed  a  valuable  one,  being  on  a  corner. 
It  was  rather  singular  that  it  had  not  been 
built  upon.  The  Townsends  had  wondered 
at  it  and  agreed  that  they  would  have  pre 
ferred  their  own  house  to  be  there.  They 
had,  however,  utilized  it  as  far  as  possible 
with  their  innocent,  rural  disregard  of  prop 
erty  rights  in  unoccupied  land. 

"We  might  just  as  well  hang  out  our 
washing  in  that  vacant  lot,"  Mrs.  Townsend 
had  told  Cordelia  the  first  Monday  of  their 
stay  in  the  house.  "Our  little  yard  ain't 
half  big  enough  for  all  our  clothes,  and  it  is 
sunnier  there,  too.  " 

So  Cordelia  had  hung  out  the  wash  there 
for  four  Mondays,  and  this  was  the  fifth. 
The  breakfast  was  about  half  finished — they 
had  reached  the  buckwheat  cakes — when 
this  maid  came  rushing  into  the  dining- 
room  and  stood  regarding  them,  speechless, 
with  a  countenance  indicative  of  the  utmost 
horror.  She  was  deadly  pale.  Her  hands, 


The  Vacant  Lot  175 

sodden  with  soapsuds,  hung  twitching  at 
her  sides  in  the  folds  of  her  calico  gown ;  her 
very  hair,  which  was  light  and  sparse, 
seemed  to  bristle  with  fear.  All  the  Town- 
sends  turned  and  looked  at  her.  David  and 
George  rose  with  a  half-defined  idea  of 
burglars. 

"Cordelia  Battles,  what  is  the  matter?'* 
cried  Mrs.  Townsend.  Adrianna  gasped  for 
breath  and  turned  as  white  as  the  maid. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  repeated  Mrs. 
Townsend,  but  the  maid  was  unable  to 
speak.  Mrs.  Townsend,  who  could  be  peremp 
tory,  sprang  up,  ran  to  the  frightened  woman 
and  shook  her  violently.  "Cordelia  Battles, 
you  speak,"  said  she,  "and  not  stand  there 
staring  that  way,  as  if  you  were  struck 
dumb  !  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

Then  Cordelia  spoke  in  a  fainting  voice. 

"There's  —  somebody  else  —  hanging  out 
clothes — in  the  vacant  lot,"  she  gasped,  and 
clutched  at  a  chair  for  support. 

"Who?"  cried  Mrs.  Townsend,  rousing  to 
indignation,  for  already  she  had  assumed 
a  proprietorship  in  the  vacant  lot.  "Is  it 
the  folks  in  the  next  house?  I'd  like  to 


176          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

know  what  right  they  have !  We  are  next 
to  that  vacant  lot." 

"I  —  dunno  —  who  it  is,"  gasped  Cordelia. 

"Why,  we've  seen  that  girl  next  door  go 
to  mass  every  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Townsend. 
"She's  got  a  fiery  red  head.  Seems  as  if  you 
might  know  her  by  this  time,  Cordelia." 

"It  ain't  that  girl,"  gasped  Cordelia. 
Then  she  added  in  a  horror-stricken  voice, 
"I  couldn't  see  who  'twas." 

They  all  stared. 

"Why  couldn't  you  see?"  demanded  her 
mistress.  "Are  you  struck  blind?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Then  why  couldn't  you  see?" 

"All  I  could  see  was '  Cordelia  hesi 
tated,  with  an  expression  of  the  utmost 
horror. 

"Go  on,"  said  Mrs.  Townsend,  impatiently. 

"All  I  could  see  was  the  shadow  of  some 
body,  very  slim,  hanging  out  the  clothes, 
and " 

"What?" 

"I  could  see  the  shadows  of  the  things 
flappin'  on  their  line." 

"You  couldn't  see  the  clothes  ?" 


The  Vacant  Lot  177 

''Only  the  shadow  on  the  ground." 
' '  What  kind  of  clothes  were  they  ?' ' 
"Queer,"  replied  Cordelia,  with  a  shudder. 
"If  I  didn't  know  you  so  well,  I  should 
think  you   had  been   drinking,"    said   Mrs. 
Townsend,     "Now,    Cordelia    Battles,    I'm 
going  out  in  that  vacant  lot  and  see  myself 
what  you're  talking  about." 

"I  can't  go,"  gasped  the  woman. 
With  that  Mrs.  Townsend  and  all  the 
others,  except  Adrianna,  who  remained  to 
tremble  with  the  maid,  sallied  forth  into  the 
vacant  lot.  They  had  to  go  out  the  area 
gate  into  the  street  to  reach  it.  It  was 
nothing  unusual  in  the  way  of  vacant  lots. 
One  large  poplar  tree,  the  relic  of  the  old 
forest  which  had  once  flourished  there, 
twinkled  in  one  corner;  for  the  rest,  it  was 
overgrown  with  coarse  weeds  and  a  few 
dusty  flowers.  The  Townsends  stood  just 
inside  the  rude  board  fence  which  divided 
the  lot  from  the  street  and  stared  with  won 
der  and  horror,  for  Cordelia  had  told  the 
truth.  They  all  saw  what  she  had  described 
— the  shadow  of  an  exceedingly  slim  woman 
moving  along  the  ground  with  up-stretched 


178          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

arms,  the  shadows  of  strange,  nondescript 
garments  flapping  from  a  shadowy  line,  but 
when  they  looked  up  for  the  substance  of  the 
shadows  nothing  was  to  be  seen  except  the 
clear,  blue  October  air. 

"My  goodness !"  gasped  Mrs.  Townsend. 
Her  face  assumed  a  strange  gathering  of 
wrath  in  the  midst  of  her  terror.  Suddenly 
she  made  a  determined  move  forward, 
although  her  husband  strove  to  hold  her 
back. 

"You  let  me  be,"  said  she.  She  moved 
forward.  Then  she  recoiled  and  gave  a  loud 
shriek.  "The  wet  sheet  flapped  in  my  face," 
she  cried.  "Take  me  away,  take  me  away  !" 
Then  she  fainted.  Between  them  they  got 
her  back  to  the  house.  "It  was  awful,"  she 
moaned  when  she  came  to  herself,  with  the 
family  all  around  her  where  she  lay  on  the 
dining-room  floor.  "Oh,  David,  what  do 
you  suppose  it  is?" 

"Nothing  at  all,"  replied  David  Townsend 
stoutly.  He  was  remarkable  for  courage 
and  staunch  belief  in  actualities.  He  was 
now  denying  to  himself  that  he  had  seen 
anything  unusual. 


The  Vacant  Lot  179 

"Oh,  there  was,"  moaned  his  wife. 

"I  saw  something,"  said  George,  in  a 
sullen,  boyish  bass. 

The  maid  sobbed  convulsively  and  so  did 
Adrianna  for  sympathy. 

"We  won't  talk  any  about  it,"  said  David. 
"Here,  Jane,  you  drink  this  hot  tea — it  will 
do  you  good;  and  Cordelia,  you  hang  out 
the  clothes  in  our  own  yard.  George,  you 
go  and  put  up  the  line  for  her." 

"The  line  is  out  there,"  said  George,  with 
a  jerk  of  his  shoulder. 

"Are you  afraid?" 

"No,  I  ain't,"  replied  the  boy  resentfully, 
and  went  out  with  a  pale  face. 

After  that  Cordelia  hung  the  Tov/nsend 
wash  in  the  yard  of  their  own  house,  stand 
ing  always  with  her  back  to  the  vacant  lot. 
As  for  David  Townsend,  he  spent  a  good  deal 
of  his  time  in  the  lot  watching  the  shadows, 
but  he  came  to  no  explanation,  although  he 
strove  to  satisfy  himself  with  many. 

"I  guess  the  shadows  come  from  the 
smoke  from  our  chimneys,  or  else  the  poplar 
tree,"  he  said. 

"Why  do  the  shadows  come  on  Monday 


180          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

mornings,  and  no  other?"  demanded  his 
wife. 

David  was  silent. 

Very  soon  new  mysteries  arose.  One  day 
Cordelia  rang  the  dinner-bell  at  their  usual 
dinner  hour,  the  same  as  in  Townsend  Centre, 
high  noon,  and  the  family  assembled.  With 
amazement  Adrianna  looked  at  the  dishes 
on  the  table. 

"Why,  that's  queer  !"  she  said. 

"What's  queer?"  asked  her  mother. 

Cordelia  stopped  short  as  she  was  about 
setting  a  tumbler  of  water  beside  a  plate, 
and  the  water  slopped  over. 

"Why,"  said  Adrianna,  her  face  paling, 
"I — thought  there  was  boiled  dinner.  I — 
smelt  cabbage  cooking." 

"I  knew  there  would  something  else  come 
up,"  gasped  Cordelia,  leaning  hard  on  the 
back  of  Adrianna's  chair. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mrs.  Town- 
send  sharply,  but  her  own  face  began  to 
assume  the  shocked  pallour  which  it  was  so 
easy  nowadays  for  all  their  faces  to  assume 
at  the  merest  suggestion  of  anything  out  of 
the  common. 


The  Vacant  Lot  181 

"I  smelt  cabbage  cooking  all  the  morning 
up  in  my  room,"  Adrianna  said  faintly, 
"and  here's  codfish  and  potatoes  for 
dinner." 

The  Townsends  all  looked  at  one  another. 
David  rose  with  an  exclamation  and  rushed 
out  of  the  room.     The  others  waited  trem 
blingly.     When  he  came  back  his  face  was 
lowering. 

"What    did    you "     Mrs.    Townsend 

asked  hesitatingly. 

"There's  some  smell  of  cabbage  out  there," 
he  admitted  reluctantly.  Then  he  looked 
at  her  with  a  challenge.  "It  comes  from 
the  next  house,"  he  said.  "Blows  over  our 
house." 

"Our  house  is  higher ." 

"I  don't  care;  you  can  never  account 
for  such  things." 

"Cordelia,"  said  Mrs.  Townsend,  "you  go 
over  to  the  next  house  and  you  ask  if  they've 
got  cabbage  for  dinner." 

Cordelia  switched  out  of  the  room,  her 
mouth  set  hard.  She  came  back  promptly. 

"Says  they  never  have  cabbage,"  she  an 
nounced  with  gloomy  triumph  and  a  con- 


1 82          The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 

elusive  glance  at  Mr.  Townsend.  "Their 
girl  was  real  sassy." 

"Oh,  father,  let's  move  away;  let's  sell 
the  house,"  cried  Adrianna  in  a  panic- 
stricken  tone. 

"If  you  think  I'm  going  to  sell  a  house 
that  I  got  as  cheap  as  this  one  because  we 
smell  cabbage  in  a  vacant  lot,  you're  mis 
taken,"  replied  David  firmly. 

"It  isn't  the  cabbage  alone,"  said  Mrs. 
Townsend. 

"And  a  few  shadows,"  added  David. 
"I  am  tired  of  such  nonsense.  I  thought 
you  had  more  sense,  Jane." 

"One  of  the  boys  at  school  asked  me  if 
we  lived  in  the  house  next  to  the  vacant  lot 
on  Wells  Street  and  whistled  when  I  said 
4  Yes,'  "  remarked  George. 

"Let  him  whistle,"  said  Mr.  Townsend. 

After  a  few  hours  the  family,  stimulated 
by  Mr.  Townsend' s  calm,  common  sense, 
agreed  that  it  was  exceedingly  foolish  to  be 
disturbed  by  a  mysterious  odour  of  cabbage. 
They  even  laughed  at  themselves. 

"I  suppose  we  have  got  so  nervous  over 
those  shadows  hanging  out  clothes  that  we 


The  Vacant  Lot  183 

notice  every  little  thing,"  conceded  Mrs. 
Townsend. 

"You  will  find  out  some  day  that  that  is 
no  more  to  be  regarded  than  the  cabbage," 
said  her  husband. 

"You  can't  account  for  that  wet  sheet 
hitting  my  face,"  said  Mrs.  Townsend, 
doubtfully. 

"You  imagined  it." 

"I  felt  it." 

That  afternoon  things  went  on  as  usual 
in  the  household  until  nearly  four  o'clock. 
Adrianna  went  downtown  to  do  some  shop 
ping.  Mrs.  Townsend  sat  sewing  beside  the 
bay  window  in  her  room,  which  was  a  front 
one  in  the  third  story.  George  had  not  got 
home.  Mr.  Townsend  was  writing  a  letter 
in  the  library.  Cordelia  was  busy  in  the 
basement ;  the"  twilight,  which  was  coming 
earlier  and  earlier  every  night,  was  beginning 
to  gather,  when  suddenly  there  was  a  loud 
crash  which  shook  the  house  from  its  founda 
tions.  Even  the  dishes  on  the  sideboard 
rattled,  and  the  glasses  rang  like  bells.  The 
pictures  on  the  walls  of  Mrs.  Townsend's 
room  swung  out  from  the  walls.  But  that 


184          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

was  not  all :  every  looking-glass  in  the  house 
cracked  simultaneously — as  nearly  as  they 
could  judge — from  top  to  bottom,  then 
shivered  into  fragments  over  the  floors.  Mrs. 
Townsend  was  too  frightened  to  scream. 
She  sat  huddled  in  'her  chair,  gasping  for 
breath,  her  eyes,  rolling  from  side  to  side  in 
incredulous  terror,  turned  toward  the  street. 
She  saw  a  great  black  group  of  people  cross 
ing  it  just  in  front  of  the  vacant  lot.  There 
was  something  inexpressibly  strange  and 
gloomy  about  this  moving  group;  there  was 
an  effect  of  sweeping,  wavings  and  foldings 
of  sable  draperies  and  gleams  of  deadly 
white  faces ;  then  they  passed.  She  twisted 
her  head  to  see,  and  they  disappeared  in 
the  vacant  lot.  Mr.  Townsend  came  hurry 
ing  into  the  room ;  he  was  pale,  and  looked  at 
once  angry  and  alarmed. 

"Did  you  fall?"  he  asked  inconse 
quent  ly,  as  if  his  wife,  who  was  small, 
could  have  produced  such  a  manifestation 
by  a  fall. 

"Oh,  David,  what  is  it?"  whispered  Mrs. 
Townsend. 

"Darned  if  I  know !"  said  David. 


The  Vacant  Lot  185 

"Don't  swear.  It's  too  awful.  Oh,  see 
the  looking-glass,  David !" 

"I  see  it.  The  one  over  the  library 
mantel  is  broken,  too." 

"Oh,  it  is  a  sign  of  death  !" 

Cordelia's  feet  were  heard  as  she  stag 
gered  on  the  stairs.  She  almost  fell  into  the 
room.  She  reeled  over  to  Mr.  Townsend 
and  clutched  his  arm.  He  cast  a  sidewise 
glance,  half  furious,  half  commiserating  at 
her. 

"Well,  what  is  it  all  about  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  What  is  it?  Oh,  what 
is  it?  The  looking-glass  in  the  kitchen  is 
broken  All  over  the  floor.  Oh,  oh !  What 
is  it?" 

"I  don't  know  any  more  than  you  do.  I 
didn't  do  it." 

"Lookin'  -glasses  broken  is  a  sign  of  death 
in  the  house,"  said  Cordelia.  "If  it's  me,  I 
hope  I'm  ready;  but  I'd  rather  die  than  be 
so  scared  as  I've  been  lately." 

Mr.  Townsend  shook  himself  loose  and 
eyed  the  two  trembling  women  with  gather 
ing  resolution. 

"Now,  look  here,  both  of  you,"  he  said. 


1  86          The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 


is  nonsense.  You'll  die  sure  enough 
of  fright  if  you  keep  on  this  way.  I  was  a 
fool  myself  to  be  startled.  Everything  it  is 
is  an  earthquake." 

"Oh,  David  !"  gasped  his  wife,  not  much 
reassured. 

"It  is  nothing  but  an  earthquake,"  per 
sisted  Mr.  Townsend.  "It  acted  just  like 
that.  Things  always  are  broken  on  the 
walls,  and  the  middle  of  the  room  isn't 
affected.  I've  read  about  it." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Townsend  gave  a  loud 
shriek  and  pointed. 

"How  do  you  account  for  that,"  she 
cried,  "if  it's  an  earthquake?  Oh,  oh,  oh!" 

She  was  on  the  verge  of  hysterics.  Her 
husband  held  her  firmly  by  the  arm  as  his 
eyes  followed  the  direction  of  her  rigid  point 
ing  finger.  Cordelia  looked  also,  her  eyes 
seeming  converged  to  a  bright  point  of  fear. 
On  the  floor  in  front  of  the  broken  looking- 
glass  lay  a  mass  of  black  stuff  in  a  grewsome 
long  ridge. 

"It's  something  you  dropped  there," 
almost  shouted  Mr.  Townsend. 

"It  ain't.     Oh!" 


The  Vacant  Lot  187 

Mr.  Townsend  dropped  his  wife's  arm  and 
took  one  stride  toward  the  object.  It  was  a 
very  long  crape  veil.  He  lifted  it,  and  it 
floated  out  from  his  arm  as  if  imbued  with 
electricity. 

"It's  yours,"  he  said  to  his  wife. 

"Oh,  David,  I  never  had  one.  You  know, 
oh,  you  know  I — shouldn't — unless  you 
died.  How  came  it  there?" 

"I'm  darned  if  I  know,"  said  David,  regard 
ing  it.  He  was  deadly  pale,  but  still  resent 
ful  rather  than  afraid. 

"Don't  hold  it;  don't!" 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  in  thunder  all  this 
means?"  said  David.  He  gave  the  thing 
an  angry  toss  and  it  fell  on  the  floor  in 
exactly  the  same  long  heap  as  before. 

Cordelia  began  to  weep  with  racking  sobs. 
Mrs.  Townsend  reached  out  and  caught  her 
husband's  hand,  clutching  it  hard  with  ice- 
cold  fingers. 

"What's  got  into  this  house,  anyhow?" 
he  growled. 

"You'll  have  to  sell  it.  Oh,  David,  we 
can't  live  here." 

"As  for  my  selling  a  house  I  paid  only  five 


1 88          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

thousand  for  when  it's  worth  twenty-five,  for 
any  such  nonsense  as  this,  I  won't !" 

David  gave  one  stride  toward  the  black 
veil,  but  it  rose  from  the  floor  and  moved 
away  before  him  across  the  room  at  exactly 
the  same  height  as  if  suspended  from  a 
woman's  head.  He  pursued  it,  clutching 
vainly,  all  around  the  room,  then  he  swung 
himself  on  his  heel  with  an  exclamation  and 
the  thing  fell  to  the  floor  again  in  the  long 
heap.  Then  were  heard  hurrying  feet  on 
the  stairs  and  Adrianna  burst  into  the  room. 
She  ran  straight  to  her  father  and  clutched 
his  arm ;  she  tried  to  speak,  but  she  chattered 
unintelligibly ;  her  face  was  blue.  Her  father 
shook  her  violently. 

"Adrianna,  do  have  more  sense !"  he 
cried. 

"Oh,  David,  how  can  you  talk  so  ?"  sobbed 
her  mother. 

"I  can't  help  it.  I'm  mad  !"  said  he  with 
emphasis.  "What  has  got  into  this  house 
and  you  all,  anyhow?" 

"What  is  it,  Adrianna,  poor  child,"  asked 
her  mother.  "Only  look  what  has  happened 
here." 


The  Vacant  Lot  189 

"It's  an  earthquake, "  said  her  father 
staunchly;  "nothing  to  be  afraid  of." 

"How  do  you  account  for  that?"  said  Mrs. 
Townsend  in  an  awful  voice,  pointing  to 
the  veil. 

Adrianna  did  not  look — she  was  too 
engrossed  with  her  own  terrors.  She  began 
to  speak  in  a  breathless  voice. 

"I — was — coming — by  the  vacant  lot," 
she  panted,  "and — I — I — had  my  new  hat 
in  a  paper  bag  and — a  parcel  of  blue  ribbon, 
and — I  saw  a  crowd,  an  awful — oh  !  a  whole 
crowd  of  people  with  white  faces,  as  if — they 
were  dressed  all  in  black." 

"Where  are  they  now?" 

"I  don't  know.  Oh!"  Adrianna  sank 
gasping  feebly  into  a  chair. 

"Get  her  some  water,  David,"  sobbed  her 
mother. 

David  rushed  with  an  impatient  exclama 
tion  out  of  the  room  and  returned  with  a 
glass  of  water  which  he  held  to  his  daughter's 
lips. 

"Here,  drink  this  !"  he  said  roughly. 

"Oh,  David,  how  can  you  speak  so?" 
sobbed  his  wife. 


IQO          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"I  can't  help  it.  I'm  mad  clean  through/' 
said  David. 

Then  there  was  a  hard  bound  upstairs, 
and  George  entered.  He  was  very  white, 
but  he  grinned  at  them  with  an  appearance 
of  unconcern. 

"Hullo  !"  he  said  in  a  shaking  voice,  which 
he  tried  to  control.  "What  on  earth's  to  pay 
in  that  vacant  lot  now?" 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  demanded  his  father. 

"Oh,  nothing,  only — well,  there  are  lights 
over  it  exactly  as  if  there  was  a  house  there, 
just  about  where  the  windows  would  be. 
It  looked  as  if  you  could  walk  right  in,  but 
when  you  look  close  there  are  those  old 
dried-up  weeds  rattling  away  on  the  ground 
the  same  as  ever.  I  looked  at  it  and  couldn't 
believe  my  eyes.  A  woman  saw  it,  too. 
She  came  along  just  as  I  did.  She  gave  one 
look,  then  she  screeched  and  ran.  I  waited 
for  some  one  else,  but  nobody  came." 

Mr.  Townsend  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

"I  daresay  it'll  be  gone  when  he  gets 
there,"  began  George,  then  he  stared  round 
the  room.  "What's  to  pay  here?"  he  cried. 

"Oh,  George,  the  whole  house  shook  all 


The  Vacant  Lot  191 

at  once,  and  all  the  looking-glasses  broke," 
wailed  his  mother,  and  Adrianna  and  Cordelia 
joined. 

George  whistled  with  pale  lips.  Then  Mr. 
Townsend  entered. 

"Well,"  asked  George,  "see  anything?" 

"I  don't  want  to  talk,"  said  his  father. 
"I've  stood  just  about  enough." 

"We've  got  to  sell  out  and  go  back  to 
Townsend  Centre,"  cried  his  wife  in  a  wild 
voice.  "Oh,  David,  say  you'll  go  back." 

"I  won't  go  back  for  any  such  nonsense  as 
this,  and  sell  a  twenty-five  thousand  dollar 
house  for  five  thousand,"  said  he  firmly. 

But  that  very  night  his  resolution  was 
shaken.  The  whole  family  watched  together 
in  the  dining-room.  They  were  all  afraid  to 
go  to  bed — that  is,  all  except  possibly  Mr. 
Townsend.  Mrs.  Townsend  declared  firmly 
that  she  for  one  would  leave  that  awful  house 
and  go  back  to  Townsend  Centre  whether  he 
came  or  not,  unless  they  all  stayed  together 
and  watched,  and  Mr.  Townsend  yielded. 
They  chose  the  dining-room  for  the  reason 
that  it  was  nearer  the  street  should  they 
wish  to  make  their  egress  hurriedly,  and  they 


192          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

took  up  their  station  around  the  dining-table 
on  which  Cordelia  had  placed  a  luncheon. 

"It  looks  exactly  as  if  we  were  watching 
with  a  corpse,"  she  said  in  a  horror-stricken 
whisper. 

"Hold  your  tongue  if  you  can't  talk 
sense, ' '  said  Mr.  Townsend. 

The  dining-room  was  very  large,  finished 
in  oak,  with  a  dark  blue  paper  above  the 
wainscotting.  The  old  sign  of  the  tavern, 
the  Blue  Leopard,  hung  over  the  mantel 
shelf.  Mr.  Townsend  had  insisted  on  hang 
ing  it  there.  He  had  a  curious  pride  in  it. 
The  family  sat  together  until  after  mid 
night  and  nothing  unusual  happened.  Mrs. 
Townsend  began  to  nod;  Mr.  Townsend 
read  the  paper  ostentatiously.  Adrianna  and 
Cordelia  stared  with  roving  eyes  about  the 
room,  then  at  each  other  as  if  comparing 
notes  on  terror.  George  had  a  book  which 
he  studied  furtively.  All  at  once  Adrianna 
gave  a  startled  exclamation  and  Cordelia 
echoed  her.  George  whistled  faintly.  Mrs. 
Townsend  awoke  with  a  start  and  Mr. 
Townsend's  paper  rattled  to  the  floor. 

"Look !"  gasped  Adrianna. 


The  Vacant  Lot  193 

The  sign  of  the  Blue  Leopard  over  the 
shelf  glowed  as  if  a  lantern  hung  over  it. 
The  radiance  was  thrown  from  above.  It 
grew  brighter  and  brighter  as  they  watched. 
The  Blue  Leopard  seemed  to  crouch  and 
spring  with  life.  Then  the  door  into  the 
front  hall  opened — the  outer  door,  which 
had  been  carefully  locked.  It  squeaked 
and  they  all  recognized  it.  They  sat  staring. 
Mr.  Townsend  was  as  transfixed  as  the  rest. 
They  heard  the  outer  door  shut,  then  the 
door  into  the  room  swung  open  and  slowly 
that  awful  black  group  of  people  which  they 
had  seen  in  the  afternoon  entered.  The 
Townsends  with  one  accord  rose  and  hud 
dled  together  in  a  far  corner;  they  all  held 
to  each  other  and  stared.  The  people,  their 
faces  gleaming  with  a  whiteness  of  death, 
their  black  robes  waving  and  folding,  crossed 
the  room.  They  were  a  trifle  above  mortal 
height,  or  seemed  so  to  the  terrified  eyes 
which  saw  them.  They  reached  the  mantel 
shelf  where  the  sign-board,  hung,  then  a 
black-draped  long  arm  was  seen  to  rise  and 
make  a  motion,  as  if  plying  a  knocker. 
Then  the  whole  company  passed  out  of 


194          Fhe  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

sight,  as  if  through  the  wall,  and  the  room 
was  as  before.  Mrs.  Townsend  was  shaking 
in  a  nervous  chill,  Adrianna  was  almost 
fainting,  Cordelia  was  in  hysterics.  David 
Townsend  stood  glaring  in  a  curious  way  at 
the  sign  of  the  Blue  Leopard.  George  stared 
at  him  with  a  look  of  horror.  There  was 
something  in  his  father's  face  which  made 
him  forget  everything  else.  At  last  he 
touched  his  arm  timidly. 

"Father,"  he  whispered. 

David  turned  and  regarded  him  with  a 
look  of  rage  and  fury,  then  his  face  cleared; 
he  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

"Good  Lord  !  What  did  come  to  me  ?"  he 
muttered. 

"You  looked  like  that  awful  picture  of  old 
Tom  Townsend  in  the  garret  in  Townsend 
Centre,  father,"  whimpered  the  boy,  shud 
dering. 

"Should  think  I  might  look  like  'most 
any  old  cuss  after  such  darned  work  as  this," 
growled  David,  but  his  face  was  white.  "Go 
and  pour  out  some  hot  tea  for  your  mother," 
he  ordered  the  boy  sharply.  He  himself 
shook  Cordelia  violently.  "Stop  such 


"  A  black-draped  long  arm  was  seen  to  rise  and 
make  a  motion  " 


The  Vacant  Lot  195 

actions !"  he  shouted  in  her  ears,  and 
shook  her  again.  "Ain't  you  a  church 
member?"  he  demanded;  "what  be  you 
afraid  of?  You  ain't  done  nothin'  wrong, 
have  ye?" 

Then  Cordelia  quoted  Scripture  in  a  burst 
of  sobs  and  laughter. 

"Behold,  I  was  shapen  in  iniquity;  and  in 
sin  did  my  mother  conceive  me,"  she  cried 
out.  "If  I  ain't  done  wrong,  mebbe  them 
that's  come  before  me  did,  and  when  the 
Evil  One  and  the  Powers  of  Darkness  is 
abroad  I'm  liable,  I'm  liable!"  Then  she 
laughed  loud  and  long  and  shrill. 

"If  you  don't  hush  up,"  said  David,  but 
still  with  that  white  terror  and  horror  on  his 
own  face,  "I'll  bundle  you  out  in  that  vacant 
lot  whether  or  no.  I  mean  it." 

Then  Cordelia  was  quiet,  after  one  wild 
roll  of  her  eyes  at  him.  The  colour  was 
returning  to  Adrianna's  cheeks;  her  mother 
was  drinking  hot  tea  in  spasmodic  gulps. 

"It's  after  midnight,"  she  gasped,  "and  I 
don't  believe  they'll  come  again  to-night. 
Do  you,  David?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  David  conclusively. 


196          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"Oh,  David,  we  mustn't  stay  another 
night  in  this  awful  house." 

"We  won't.  To-morrow  we'll  pack  off 
bag  and  baggage  to  Townsend  Centre,  if  it 
takes  all  the  fire  department  to  move  us," 
said  David. 

Adrianna  smiled  in  the  midst  of  her  terror. 
She  thought  of  Abel  Lyons. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Townsend  went  to  the 
real  estate  agent  who  had  sold  him  the 
house. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  said,  "I  can't  stand  it. 
Sell  the  house  for  what  you  can  get.  I'll 
give  it  away  rather  than  keep  it." 

Then  he  added  a  few  strong  words  as  to 
his  opinion  of  parties  who  sold  him  such  an 
establishment.  But  the  agent  pleaded  inno 
cent  for  the  most  part. 

"I'll  own  I  suspected  something  wrong 
when  the  owner,  who  pledged  me  to  secrecy 
as  to  his  name,  told  me  to  sell  that  place  for 
what  I  could  get,  and  did  not  limit  me.  I 
had  never  heard  anything,  but  I  began  to 
suspect  something  was  wrong.  Then  I 
made  a  few  inquiries  and  found  out  that 
there  was  a  rumour  in  the  neighbourhood 


The  Vacant  Lot  197 

that  there  was  something  out  of  the  usual 
about  that  vacant  lot.  I  had  wondered 
myself  why  it  wasn't  built  upon.  There  was 
a  story  about  it's  being  undertaken  once,  and 
the  contract  made,  and  the  contractor 
dying ;  then  another  man  took  it  and  one  of 
the  workmen  was  killed  on  his  way  to  dig  the 
cellar,  and  the  others  struck.  I  didn't  pay 
much  attention  to  it.  I  never  believed  much 
in  that  sort  of  thing  anyhow,  and  then,  too, 
I  couldn't  find  out  that  there  had  ever  been 
anything  wrong  about  the  house  itself, 
except  as  the  people  who  had  lived  there  were 
said  to  have  seen  and  heard  queer  things  in 
the  vacant  lot,  so  I  thought  you  might  be 
able  to  get  along,  especially  as  you  didn't  look 
like  a  man  who  was  timid,  and  the  house 
was  such  a  bargain  as  I  never  handled  before. 
But  this  you  tell  me  is  beyond  belief." 

1  'Do  you  know  the  names  of  the  people 
who  formerly  owned  the  vacant  lot?"  asked 
Mr.  Townsend. 

"I  don't  know  for  certain,"  replied  the 
agent,  "for  the  original  owners  flourished 
long  before  your  or  my  day,  but  I  do  know 
that  the  lot  goes  by  the  name  of  the  old 


198          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Gaston  lot.  What's  the  matter?  Are 
you  ill?" 

" No;  it  is  nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Townsend. 
"Get  what  you  can  for  the  house;  perhaps 
another  family  might  not  be  as  troubled  as 
we  have  been." 

"I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  leave  the 
city  ?"  said  the  agent,  urbanely. 

"I  am  going  back  to  Townsend  Centre  as 
fast  as  steam  can  carry  me  after  we  get 
packed  up  and  out  of  that  cursed  house," 
replied  Mr.  David  Townsend. 

He  did  not  tell  the  agent  nor  any  of  his 
faxnily  what  had  caused  him  to  start  when 
told  the  name  of  the  former  owners  of  the 
lot.  He  remembered  all  at  once  the  story 
of  a  ghastly  murder  which  had  taken  place 
in  the  Blue  Leopard.  The  victim's  name 
was  Gaston  and  the  murderer  had  never 
been  discovered. 


THE   LOST  GHOST 


THE   LOST   GHOST 

MRS.  JOHN  EMERSON,  sitting  with 
her  needlework  beside  the  window, 
looked  out  and  saw  Mrs.  Rhoda 
Meserve  coming  down  the  street,  and  knew 
at  once  by  the  trend  of  her  steps  and  the 
cant  of  her  head  that  she  meditated  turning 
in  at  her  gate.  She  also  knew  by  a  certain 
something  about  her  general  carriage — a 
thrusting  forward  of  the  neck,  a  bustling 
hitch  of  the  shoulders — that  she  had  impor 
tant  news.  Rhoda  Meserve  always  had  the 
news  as  soon  as  the  news  was  in  being,  and 
generally  Mrs.  John  Emerson  was  the  first  to 
whom  she  imparted  it.  The  two  women  had 
been  friends  ever  since  Mrs.  Meserve  had 
married  Simon  Meserve  and  come  to  the 
village  to  live. 

Mrs.  Meserve  was  a  pretty  woman,  moving 
with  graceful  flirts  of  ruffling  skirts ;  her  clear- 
cut,  nervous  face,  as  delicately  tinted  as  a 
shell,  looked  brightly  from  the  plumy  brim 
201 


202          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

of  a  black  hat  at  Mrs.  Emerson  in  the  window. 
Mrs.  Emerson  was  glad  to  see  her  coming. 
She  returned  the  greeting  with  enthusiasm, 
then  rose  hurriedly,  ran  into  the  cold  parlour 
and  brought  out  one  of  the  best  rocking- 
chairs.  She  was  just  in  time,  after  drawing 
it  up  beside  the  opposite  window,  to  greet 
her  friend  at  the  door. 

" Good-afternoon,"  said  she.  "I  declare, 
I'm  real  glad  to  see  you.  I've  been  alone  all 
day.  John  went  to  the  city  this  morning. 
I  thought  of  coming  over  to  your  house  this 
afternoon,  but  I  couldn't  bring  my  sewing 
very  well.  I  am  putting  the  ruffles  on  my 
new  black  dress  skirt. " 

"Well,  I  didn't  have  a  thing  on  hand 
except  my  crochet  work,"  responded  Mrs. 
Meserve,  "and  I  thought  I'd  just  run  over  a 
few  minutes." 

"I'm  real  glad  you  did,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Emerson.  "Take  your  things  right  off. 
Here,  I'll  put  them  on  my  bed  in  the  bed 
room.  Take  the  rocking-chair. " 

Mrs.  Meserve  settled  herself  in  the  parlour 
rocking-chair,  while  Mrs.  Emerson  carried 
her  shawl  and  hat  into  the  little  adjoining 


The  Lost  Ghost  203 

bedroom.  When  she  returned  Mrs.  Meserve 
was  rocking  peacefully  and  was  already  at 
work  hooking  blue  wool  in  and  out. 

"  That's  real  pretty, "  said  Mrs.  Emerson. 

"Yes,  I  think  it's  pretty,"  replied  Mrs. 
Meserve. 

"  I  suppose  it's  for  the  church  fair  ?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  suppose  it'll  bring  enough 
to  pay  for  the  worsted,  let  alone  the 
work,  but  I  suppose  I've  got  to  make 
something. " 

"  How  much  did  that  one  you  made  for  the 
fair  last  year  bring?" 

"  Twenty-five  cents. " 

"It's  wicked,  ain't  it?" 

"  I  rather  guess  it  is.  It  takes  me  a  week 
every  minute  I  can  get  to  make  one.  I  wish 
those  that  bought  such  things  for  twenty-five 
cents  had  to  make  them.  Guess  they'd 
sing  another  song.  Well,  I  suppose  I 
oughtn't  to  complain  as  long  as  it  is  for  the 
Lord,  but  sometimes  it  does  seem  as  if  the 
Lord  didn't  get  much  out  of  it." 

"Well,  it's  pretty  work,"  said  Mrs.  Emer 
son,  sitting  down  at  the  opposite  window  and 
taking  up  her  dress  skirt. 


204          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"  Yes,  it  is  real  pretty  work.  I  just  love  to 
crochet. " 

The  two  women  rocked  and  sewed  and 
crocheted  in  silence  for  two  or  three  minutes. 
They  were  both  waiting.  Mrs.  Meserve 
waited  for  the  other's  curiosity  to  develop 
in  order  that  her  news  might  have,  as  it  were, 
a  befitting  stage  entrance.  Mrs.  Emerson 
waited  for  the  news.  Finally  she  could  wait 
no  longer. 

"Well,  what's  the  news?"  said  she. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  there's  anything 
very  particular,"  hedged  the  other  woman, 
prolonging  the  situation. 

"Yes,  there  is;  you  can't  cheat  me," 
replied  Mrs.  Emerson. 

"Now,  how  do  you  know?" 

"  By  the  way  you  look. " 

Mrs.  Meserve  laughed  consciously  and 
rather  vainly. 

"Well,  Simon  says  my  face  is  so  expres 
sive  I  can't  hide  anything  more  than  five 
minutes  no  matter  how  hard  I  try,"  said 
she.  "Well,  there  is  some  news.  Simon 
came  home  with  it  this  noon.  He  heard 
it  in  South  Dayton.  He  had  some  business 


The  Lost  Ghost  205 

over  there  this  morning.  The  old  Sargent 
place  is  let." 

Mrs.  Emerson  dropped  her  sewing  and 
stared. 

"You  don't  say  so  !" 

"Yes,  it  is." 

"Who  to?" 

"Why,  some  folks  from  Boston  that  moved 
to  South  Dayton  last  year.  They  haven't 
been  satisfied  with  the  house  they  had  there 
— it  wasn't  large  enough.  The  man  has  got 
considerable  property  and  can  afford  to 
live  pretty  well.  He's  got  a  wife  and  his 
unmarried  sister  in  the  family.  The  sister's 
got  money,  too.  He  does  business  in  Boston 
and  it's  just  as  easy  to  get  to  Boston  from 
here  as  from  South  Dayton,  and  so  they're 
coming  here.  You  know  the  old  Sargent 
house  is  a  splendid  place." 

"Yes,  it's  the  handsomest  house  in  town, 
but " 

"Oh,  Simon  said  they  told  him  about  that 
and  he  just  laughed.  Said  he  wasn't  afraid 
and  neither  was  his  wife  and  sister.  Said 
he'd  risk  ghosts  rather  than  little  tucked- 
up  sleeping-rooms  without  any  sun,  like 


206          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

they've  had  in  the  Dayton  house.  Said  he'd 
rather  risk  seeing  ghosts,  than  risk  being 
ghosts  themselves.  Simon  said  they  said 
he  was  a  great  hand  to  joke." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Emerson,  "it  is  a 
beautiful  house,  and  maybe  there  isn't  any 
thing  in  those  stories.  It  never  seemed  to 
me  they  came  very  straight  anyway.  I 
never  took  much  stock  in  them.  All  I 
thought  was — if  his  wife  was  nervous." 

"Nothing  in  creation  would  hire  me  to  go 
into  a  house  that  I'd  ever  heard  a  word 
against  of  that  kind,"  declared  Mrs.  Meserve 
with  emphasis.  "I  wouldn't  go  into  that 
house  if  they  would  give  me  the  rent.  I've 
seen  enough  of  haunted  houses  to  last  me  as 
long  as  I  live." 

Mrs.  Emerson's  face  acquired  the  expres 
sion  of  a  hunting  hound. 

"Have  you?"  she  asked  in  an  intense 
whisper. 

"Yes,  I  have.  I  don't  want  any  more  of 
it." 

"Before  you  came  here  ?" 

"Yes;  before  I  was  married — when  I  was 
quite  a  girl." 


The  Lost  Ghost  207 

Mrs.  Meserve  had  not  married  young. 
Mrs.  Emerson  had  mental  calculations  when 
she  heard  that. 

"Did  you  really  live  in  a  house  that 
was "  she  whispered  fearfully. 

Mrs.  Meserve  nodded  solemnly. 

"Did  you  really  ever — see — anything " 

Mrs.  Meserve  nodded. 

"You  didn't  see  anything  that  did  you 
any  harm?" 

"No,  I  didn't  see  anything  that  did  me 
harm  looking  at  it  in  one  way,  but  it  don't 
do  anybody  in  this  world  any  good  to  see 
things  that  haven't  any  business  to  be  seen 
in  it.  You  never  get  over  it." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Mrs. 
Emerson's  features  seemed  to  sharpen. 

"Well,  of  course  I  don't  want  to  urge 
you,"  said  she,  "if  you  don't  feel  like  talking 
about  it ;  but  maybe  it  might  do  you  good  to 
tell  it  out,  if  it's  on  your  mind,  worrying 
you." 

"I  try  to  put  it  out  of  my  mind,"  said 
Mrs.  Meserve. 

"Well,  it's  just  as  you  feel." 

"I  never  told  anybody  but  Simon,"  said 


208          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

Mrs.  Meserve.  ''I  never  felt  as  if  it  was  wise 
perhaps.  I  didn't  know  what  folks  might 
think.  So  many  don't  believe  in  anything 
they  can't  understand,  that  they  might  think 
my  mind  wasn't  right.  Simon  advised 
me  not  to  talk  about  it.  He  said  he  didn't 
believe  it  was  anything  supernatural,  but 
he  had  to  own  up  that  he  couldn't  give  any 
explanation  for  it  to  save  his  life.  He  had 
to  own  up  that  he  didn't  believe  anybody 
could.  Then  he  said  he  wouldn't  talk 
about  it.  He  said  lots  of  folks  would  sooner 
tell  folks  my  head  wasn't  right  than  to  own 
up  they  couldn't  see  through  it." 

"I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  say  so,"  returned 
Mrs.  Emerson  reproachfully.  "You  know 
better  than  that,  I  hope." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Mrs.  Meserve.  "I 
know  you  wouldn't  say  so." 

"And  I  wouldn't  tell  it  to  a  soul  if  you 
didn't  want  me  to." 

"Well,  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't." 

"I  won't  speak  of  it  even  to  Mr.  Emerson." 

"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  even  to  him." 

"I  won't." 

Mrs.    Emerson  took   up   her   dress   skirt 


The  Lost  Ghost  209 

again ;  Mrs.  Meserve  hooked  up  another  loop 
of  blue  wool.  Then  she  begun : 

"Of  course,"  said  she,  "I  ain't  going  to 
say  positively  that  I  believe  or  disbelieve  in 
ghosts,  but  all  I  tell  you  is  what  I  saw.  I 
can't  explain  it.  I  don't  pretend  I  can,  for 
I  can't.  If  you  can,  well  and  good;  I  shall 
be  glad,  for  it  will  stop  tormenting  me  as  it 
has  done  and  always  will  otherwise.  There 
hasn't  been  a  day  nor  a  night  since  it  hap 
pened  that  I  haven't  thought  of  it,  and 
always  I  have  felt  the  shivers  go  down  my 
back  when  I  did." 

'That's  an  awful  feeling,"  Mrs.  Emerson 
said. 

"Ain't  it  ?  Well,  it  happened  before  I  was 
married,  when  I  was  a  girl  and  lived  in  East 
Wilmington.  It  was  the  first  year  I  lived 
there.  You  know  my  family  all  died  five 
years  before  that.  I  told  you." 

Mrs.  Emerson  nodded. 

"Well,  I  went  there  to  teach  school,  and  I 
went  to  board  with  a  Mrs.  Amelia  Dennison 
and  her  sister,  Mrs.  Bird.  Abby,  her  name 
was — Abby  Bird.  She  was  a  widow ;  she  had 
never  had  any  children.  She  had  a  little 


2io          The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 

money — Mrs.  Dennison  didn't  have  any — 
and  she  had  come  to  East  Wilmington  and 
bought  the  house  they  lived  in.  It  was 
a  real  pretty  house,  though  it  was  very  old 
and  run  down.  It  had  cost  Mrs.  Bird  a  good 
deal  to  put  it  in  order.  I  guess  that  was 
the  reason  they  took  me  to  board.  I  guess 
they  thought  it  would  help  along  a  little.  I 
guess  what  I  paid  for  my  board  about  kept 
us  all  in  victuals.  Mrs.  Bird  had  enough  to 
live  on  if  they  were  careful,  but  she  had 
spent  so  much  fixing  up  the  old  house  that 
they  must  have  been  a  little  pinched  for 
awhile. 

"Anyhow,  they  took  me  to  board,  and  I 
thought  I  was  pretty  lucky  to  get  in  there. 
I  had  a  nice  room,  big  and  sunny  and 
furnished  pretty,  the  paper  and  paint  all 
new,  and  everything  as  neat  as  wax.  Mrs. 
Dennison  was  one  of  the  best  cooks  I  ever 
saw,  and  I  had  a  little  stove  in  my  room, 
and  there  was  always  a  nice  fire  there  when 
I  got  home  from  school.  I  thought  I  hadn't 
been  in  such  a  nice  place  since  I  lost  my 
own  home,  until  I  had  been  there  about 
three  weeks. 


The  Lost  Ghost  211 

"I  had  been  there  about  three  weeks 
before  I  found  it  out,  though  I  guess  it  had 
been  going  on  ever  since  they  had  been  in  the 
house,  and  that  was  most  four  months. 
They  hadn't  said  anything  about  it,  and  I 
didn't  wonder,  for  there  they  had  just  bought 
the  house  and  been  to  so  much  expense  and 
trouble  fixing  it  up. 

"Well,  I  went  there  in  September.  I  begun 
my  school  the  first  Monday.  I  remember 
it  was  a  real  cold  fall,  there  was  a  frost  the 
middle  of  September,  and  I  had  to  put  on  my 
winter  coat.  I  remember  when  I  came  home 
that  night  (let  me  see,  I  began  school  on  a 
Monday,  and  that  was  two  weeks  from  the 
next  Thursday),  I  took  off  my  coat  down 
stairs  and  laid  it  on  the  table  in  the  front 
entry.  It  was  a  real  nice  coat — heavy  black 
broadcloth  trimmed  with  fur;  I  had  had  it 
the  winter  before.  Mrs.  Bird  called  after 
me  as  I  went  upstairs  that  I  ought  not  to 
leave  it  in  the  front  entry  for  fear  somebody 
might  come  in  and  take  it,  but  I  only  laughed 
and  called  back  to  her  that  I  wasn't  afraid. 
I  never  was  much  afraid  of  burglars. 

"Well,  though  it  was  hardly  the  middle  of 


212          The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 

September,  it  was  a  real  cold  night.  I  remem 
ber  my  room  faced  west,  and  the  sun  was 
getting  low,  and  the  sky  was  a  pale  yellow 
and  purple,  just  as  you  see  it  sometimes  in 
the  winter  when  there  is  going  to  be  a  cold 
snap.  I  rather  think  that  was  the  night  the 
frost  came  the  first  time.  I  know  Mrs. 
Dennison  covered  up  some  flowers  she  had 
in  the  front  yard,  anyhow.  I  remember 
looking  out  and  seeing  an  old  green  plaid 
shawl  of  hers  over  the  verbena  bed.  There 
was  a  fire  in  my  little  wood-stove.  Mrs.  Bird 
made  it,  I  know.  She  was  a  real  motherly 
sort  of  woman ;  she  always  seemed  to  be  the 
happiest  when  she  was  doing  something  to 
make  other  folks  happy  and  comfortable. 
Mrs.  Dennison  told  me  she  had  always  been 
so.  She  said  she  had  coddled  her  husband 
within  an  inch  of  his  life.  'It's  lucky  Abby 
never  had  any  children,'  she  said,  'for  she 
would  have  spoilt  them.' 

"Well,  that  night  I  sat  down  beside  my 
nice  little  fire  and  ate  an  apple.  There 
was  a  plate  of  nice  apples  on  my  table. 
Mrs.  Bird  put  them  there.  I  was  always 
very  fond  of  apples.  Well,  I  sat  down  and 


The  Lost  Ghost  213 

ate  an  apple,  and  was  having  a  beautiful 
time,  and  thinking  how  lucky  I  was  to  have 
got  board  in  such  a  place  with  such  nice 
folks,  when  I  heard  a  queer  little  sound  at 
my  door.  It  was  such  a  little  hesitating 
sort  of  sound  that  it  sounded  more  like  a 
fumble  than  a  knock,  as  if  some  one  very 
timid,  with  very  little  hands,  was  feeling 
along  the  door,  not  quite  daring  to  knock. 
For  a  minute  I  thought  it  was  a  mouse. 
But  I  waited  and  it  came  again,  and  then 
I  made  up  my  mind  it  was  a  knock,  but  a 
very  little  scared  one,  so  I  said,  'Come  in.' 

"But  nobody  came  in,  and  then  presently  I 
heard  the  knock  again.  Then  I  got  up  and 
opened  the  door,  thinking  it  was  very  queer, 
and  I  had  a  frightened  feeling  without  know 
ing  why. 

"Well,  I  opened  the  door,  and  the  first 
thing  I  noticed  was  a  draught  of  cold  air, 
as  if  the  front  door  downstairs  was  open,  but 
there  was  a  strange  close  smell  about  the  cold 
draught.  It  smelled  more  like  a  cellar  that 
had  been  shut  up  for  years,  than  out-of-doors. 
Then  I  saw  something.  I  saw  my  coat  first. 
The  thing  that  held  it  was  so  small  that  I 


214         The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 

couldn't  see  much  of  anything  else.  Then 
I  saw  a  little  white  face  with  eyes  so  scared 
and  wishful  that  they  seemed  as  if  they  might 
eat  a  hole  in  anybody's  heart.  It  was  a 
dreadful  little  face,  with  something  about  it 
which  made  it  different  from  any  other  face 
on  earth,  but  it  was  so  pitiful  that  somehow 
it  did  away  a  good  deal  with  the  dreadful- 
ness.  And  there  were  two  little  hands 
spotted  purple  with  the  cold,  holding  up  my 
winter  coat,  and  a  strange  little  far-away 
voice  said:  'I  can't  find  my  mother.' 

"  'For  Heaven's  sake,'  I  said,  'who  are 
you?' 

"Then  the  little  voice  said  again:  'I  can't 
find  my  mother.' 

"All  the  time  I  could  smell  the  cold  and  I 
saw  that  it  was  about  the  child;  that  cold 
was  clinging  to  her  as  if  she  had  come  out 
of  some  deadly  cold  place.  Well,  I  took  my 
coat,  I  did  not  know  what  else  to  do,  and  the 
cold  was  clinging  to  that.  It  was  as  cold  as 
if  it  had  come  off  ice.  When  I  had  the  coat 
I  could  see  the  child  more  plainly.  She  was 
dressed  in  one  little  white  garment  made 
very  simply.  It  was  a  nightgown,  only  very 


"  Then  I  saw  a  little  white  face  with  eyes  so  scared  and  wistful 

that  they  seemed  as  if  they  might  eat  a  hole 

in  anybody's  heart." 


The  Lost  Ghost  215 

long,  quite  covering  her  feet,  and  I  could  see 
dimly  through  it  her  little  thin  body  mottled 
purple  with  the  cold.  Her  face  did  not  look 
so  cold ;  that  was  a  clear  waxen  white.  Her 
hair  was  dark,  but  it  looked  as  if  it  might  be 
dark  only  because  it  was  so  damp,  almost 
wet,  and  might  really  be  light  hair.  It  clung 
very  close  to  her  forehead,  which  was  round 
and  white.  She  would  have  been  very 
beautiful  if  she  had  not  been  so  dreadful. 

"  'Who  are  you?'  says  I  again,  looking  at 
her. 

"She  looked  at  me  with  her  terrible  plead 
ing  eyes  and  did  not  say  anything. 

"  'What  are  you?'  says  I.  Then  she  went 
away.  She  did  not  seem  to  run  or  walk 
like  other  children.  She  flitted,  like  one  of 
those  little  filmy  white  butterflies,  that  don't 
seem  like  real  ones  they  are  so  light,  and  move 
as  if  they  had  no  weight.  But  she  looked 
back  from  the  head  of  the  stairs.  'I  can't 
find  my  mother,'  said  she,  and  I  never  heard 
such  a  voice. 

"  'Who  is  your  mother?'  says  I,  but  she 
was  gone. 

"Well,  I  thought  for  a  moment  I  should 


216          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

faint  away.  The  room  got  dark  and  I  heard 
a  singing  in  my  ears.  Then  I  flung  my  coat 
onto  the  bed.  My  hands  were  as  cold  as  ice 
from  holding  it,  and  I  stood  in  my  door,  and 
called  first  Mrs.  Bird  and  then  Mrs.  Dennison. 
I  didn't  dare  go  down  over  the  stairs  where 
that  had  gone.  It  seemed  to  me  I  should  go 
mad  if  I  didn't  see  somebody  or  something 
like  other  folks  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  I 
thought  I  should  never  make  anybody  hear, 
but  I  could  hear  them  stepping  about  down 
stairs,  and  I  could  smell  biscuits  baking  for 
supper.  Somehow  the  smell  of  those  bis 
cuits  seemed  the  only  natural  thing  left  to 
keep  me  in  my  right  mind.  I  didn't  dare  go 
over  those  stairs.  I  just  stood  there  and 
called,  and  finally  I  heard  the  entry  door  open 
and  Mrs.  Bird  called  back: 

"  'What  is  it?     Did  you  call,  Miss  Arms?' 
11  'Come  up  here;  come  up  here  as  quick  as 
you  can,  both  of  you,'  I  screamed  out ;  'quick, 
quick,  quick  !' 

"I  heard  Mrs.  Bird  tell  Mrs.  Dennison: 
'Come  quick,  Amelia,  something  is  the  matter 
in  Miss  Arms'  room.'  It  struck  me  even 
then  that  she  expressed  herself  rather  queerly, 


The  Lost  Ghost  217 

and  it  struck  me  as  very  queer,  indeed,  when 
they  both  got  upstairs  and  I  saw  that  they 
knew  what  had  happened,  or  that  they  knew 
of  what  nature  the  happening  was. 

"  'What  is  it,  dear?'  asked  Mrs.  Bird,  and 
her  pretty,  loving  voice  had  a  strained  sound. 
I  saw  her  look  at  Mrs.  Dennison  and  I  saw 
Mrs.  Dennison  look  back  at  her. 

"  'For  God's  sake,'  says  I,  and  I  never 
spoke  so  before — 'for  God's  sake,  what  was 
it  brought  my  coat  upstairs  ?' 

"  'What  was  it  like?'  asked  Mrs.  Dennison 
in  a  sort  of  failing  voice,  and  she  looked  at 
her  sister  again  and  her  sister  looked  back 
at  her. 

"  'It  was  a  child  I  have  never  seen  here 
before.  It  looked  like  a  child,'  says  I,  'but  I 
never  saw  a  child  so  dreadful,  and  it  had  on 
a  nightgown,  and  said  she  couldn't  find  her 
mother.  Who  was  it  ?  What  was  it  ?' 

"I  thought  for  a  minute  Mrs.  Dennison 
was  going  to  faint,  but  Mrs.  Bird  hung  onto 
her  and  rubbed  her  hands,  and  whispered  in 
her  ear  (she  had  the  cooingest  kind  of  voice), 
and  I  ran  and  got  her  a  glass  of  cold  water. 
I  tell  you  it  took  considerable  courage  to  go 


218          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-busk 

downstairs  alone,  but  they  had  set  a  lamp  on 
the  entry  table  so  I  could  see.  I  don't  believe 
I  could  have  spunked  up  enough  to  have 
gone  downstairs  in  the  dark,  thinking  every 
second  that  child  might  be  close  to  me.  The 
lamp  and  the  smell  of  the  biscuits  baking 
seemed  to  sort  of  keep  my  courage  up,  but  I 
tell  you  I  didn't  waste  much  time  going  down 
those  stairs  and  out  into  the  kitchen  for 
a  glass  of  water.  I  pumped  as  if  the  house 
was  afire,  and  I  grabbed  the  first  thing  I  came 
across  in  the  shape  of  a  tumbler:  it  was  a 
painted  one  that  Mrs.  Dennison's  Sunday 
school  class  gave  her,  and  it  was  meant  for 
a  flower  vase. 

1  'Well,  I  filled  it  and  then  ran  upstairs. 
I  felt  every  minute  as  if  something  would 
catch  my  feet,  and  I  held  the  glass  to 
Mrs.  Dennison's  lips,  while  Mrs.  Bird 
held  her  head  up,  and  she  took  a  good 
long  swallow,  then  she  looked  hard  at  the 
tumbler. 

'"Yes/  says  I,  'I  know  I  got  this  one,  but 
I  took  the  first  I  came  across,  and  it  isn't 
hurt  a  mite/ 

"  'Don't  get  the  painted  flowers  wet,'  says 


The  Lost  Ghost  219 

Mrs.  Dennison  very  feebly,  'they'll  wash  off 
if  you  do/ 

"  Til  be  real  careful,'  says  I.  I  knew  she 
set  a  sight  by  that  painted  tumbler. 

"The  water  seemed  to  do  Mrs.  Dennison 
good,  for  presently  she  pushed  Mrs.  Bird 
away  and  sat  up.  She  had  been  laying 
down  on  my  bed. 

11  'I'm  all  over  it  now/  says  she,  but  she 
was  terribly  white,  and  her  eyes  looked  as 
if  they  saw  something  outside  things.  Mrs. 
Bird  wasn't  much  better,  but  she  always 
had  a  sort  of  settled  sweet,  good  look  that 
nothing  could  disturb  to  any  great  extent. 
I  knew  I  looked  dreadful,  for  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  myself  in  the  glass,  and  I  would 
hardly  have  known  who  it  was. 

"Mrs.  Dennison,  she  slid  off  the  bed  and 
walked  sort  of  tottery  to  a  chair.  'I  was 
silly  to  give  way  so,'  says  she. 

"  'No,  you  wasn't  silly,  sister/  says  Mrs. 
Bird.  'I  don't  know  what  this  means  any 
more  than  you  do,  but  whatever  it  is,  no 
one  ought  to  be  called  silly  for  being  over 
come  by  anything  so  different  from  other 
things  which  we  have  known  all  our  lives/ 


220          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

"Mrs.  Dennison  looked  at  her  sister,  then 
she  looked  at  me,  then  back  at  her  sister 
again,  and  Mrs.  Bird  spoke  as  if  she  had  been 
asked  a  question. 

"'Yes,'  says  she,  'I  do  think  Miss  Arms 
ought  to  be  told — that  is,  I  think  she  ought 
to  be  told  all  we  know  ourselves.' 

"  That  isn't  much,'  said  Mrs.  Dennison 
with  a  dying-away  sort  of  sigh.  She  looked 
as  if  she  might  faint  away  again  any  minute. 
She  was  a  real  delicate-looking  woman,  but 
it  turned  out  she  was  a  good  deal  stronger 
than  poor  Mrs.  Bird. 

"  'No,  there  isn't  much  we  do  know,'  says 
Mrs.  Bird,  'but  what  little  there  is  she  ought 
to  know.  I  felt  as  if  she  ought  to  when 
she  first  came  here.' 

"  'Well,  I  didn't  feel  quite  right  about  it,' 
said  Mrs.  Dennison,  'but  I  kept  hoping  it 
might  stop,  and  any  way,  that  it  might  never 
trouble  her,  and  you  had  put  so  much  in  the 
house,  and  we  needed  the  money,  and  I  didn't 
know  but  she  might  be  nervous  and  think 
she  couldn't  come,  and  I  didn't  want  to  take 
a  man  boarder.' 

"  'And  aside  from  the  money,  we  were  very 


The  Lost  Ghost  221 

anxious  to  have  you  come,  my  dear,'  says 
Mrs.  Bird. 

11  'Yes/  says  Mrs.  Dennison,  'we  wanted 
the  young  company  in  the  house;  we  were 
lonesome,  and  we  both  of  us  took  a  great 
liking  to  you  the  minute  we  set  eyes  on  you.' 

"And  I  guess  they  meant  what  they  said, 
both  of  them.  They  were  beautiful  women, 
and  nobody  could  be  any  kinder  to  me  than 
they  were,  and  I  never  blamed  them  for  not 
telling  me  before,  and,  as  they  said,  there 
wasn't  really  much  to  tell. 

"They  hadn't  any  sooner  fairly  bought  the 
house,  and  moved  into  it,  than  they  began  to 
see  and  hear  things.  Mrs.  Bird  said  they  were 
sitting  together  in  the  sitting-room  one  even 
ing  when  they  heard  it  the  first  time.  She  said 
her  sister  was  knitting  lace  (Mrs.  Dennison 
made  beautiful  knitted  lace)  and  she  was 
reading  the  Missionary  Herald  (Mrs.  Bird 
was  very  much  interested  in  mission  work), 
when  all  of  a  sudden  they  heard  something. 
She  heard  it  first  and  she  laid  down  her 
Missionary  Herald  and  listened,  and  then 
Mrs.  Dennison  she  saw  her  listening  and  she 
drops  her  lace.  'What  is  it  you  are  listening 


222          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

to,  Abby?'  says  she.  Then  it  came  again 
and  they  both  heard,  and  the  cold  shivers 
went  down  their  backs  to  hear  it,  though 
they  didn't  know  why.  'It's  the  cat,  isn't 
it  ?'  says  Mrs.  Bird. 

'  'It  isn't  any  cat,'  says  Mrs.  Dennison. 

'  'Oh,  I  guess  it  must  be  the  cat;  maybe 
she's  got  a  mouse,'  says  Mrs.  Bird,  real 
cheerful,  to  calm  down*  Mrs.  Dennison,  for 
she  saw  she  was  'most  scared  to  death,  and 
she  was  always  afraid  of  her  fainting  away. 
Then  she  opens  the  door  and  calls,  'Kitty, 
kitty,  kitty  !'  They  had  brought  their  cat 
with  them  in  a  basket  when  they  came  to 
East  Wilmington  to  live.  It  was  a  real 
handsome  tiger  cat,  a  tommy,  and  he 
knew  a  lot. 

"Well,  she  called  'Kitty,  kitty,  kitty  !'  and 
sure  enough  the  kitty  came,  and  when  he 
came  in  the  door  he  gave  a  big  yawl  that 
didn't  sound  unlike  what  they  had  heard. 

;  'There,  sister,  here  he  is;  you  see  it  was 
the  cat,'  says  Mrs.  Bird.  'Poor  kitty  !' 

"But  Mrs.  Dennison  she  eyed  the  cat,  and 
she  give  a  great  screech. 

' '  'What's  that  ?     What's  that  ?'  says  she. 


The  Lost  Ghost  223 

"  'What's  what?'  says  Mrs.  Bird,  pretend 
ing  to  herself  that  she  didn't  see  what  her 
sister  meant. 

11  'Somethin's  got  hold  of  that  cat's  tail,' 
says  Mrs.  Dennison.  'Somethin's  got  hold  of 
his  tail.  It's  pulled  straight  out,  an'  he  can't 
get  away.  Just  hear  him  yawl !' 

"  'It  isn't  anything,'  says  Mrs.  Bird,  but 
even  as  she  said  that  she  could  see  a  little 
hand  holding  fast  to  that  cat's  tail,  and  then 
the  child  seemed  to  sort  of  clear  out  of  the 
dimness  behind  the  hand,  and  the  child  was 
sort  of  laughing  then,  instead  of  looking  sad, 
and  she  said  that  was  a  great  deal  worse. 
She  said  that  laugh  was  the  most  awful  and 
the  saddest  thing  she  ever  heard. 

"Well,  she  was  so  dumfounded  that  she 
didn't  know  what  to  do,  and  she  couldn't 
sense  at  first  that  it  was  anything  super 
natural.  She  thought  it  must  be  one  of  the 
neighbour's  children  who  had  run  away  and 
was  making  free  of  their  house,  and  was 
teasing  their  cat,  and  that  they  must  be  just 
nervous  to  feel  so  upset  by  it.  So  she  speaks 
up  sort  of  sharp. 

"  'Don't  you  know  that  you  mustn't  pull 


224         The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

the  kitty's  tail?'  says  she.  'Don't  you 
know  you  hurt  the  poor  kitty,  and  she'll 
scratch  you  if  you  don't  take  care.  Poor 
kitty,  you  mustn't  hurt  her.' 

"And  with  that  she  said  the  child  stopped 
pulling  that  cat's  tail  and  went  to  stroking 
her  just  as  soft  and  pitiful,  and  the  cat  put 
his  back  up  and  rubbed  and  purred  as  if  he 
liked  it.  The  cat  never  seemed  a  mite 
afraid,  and  that  seemed  queer,  for  I  had 
always  heard  that  animals  were  dreadfully 
afraid  of  ghosts ;  but  then,  that  was  a  pretty 
harmless  little  sort  of  ghost. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Bird  said  the  child  stroked 
that  cat,  while  she  and  Mrs.  Dennison  stood 
watching  it,  and  holding  onto  each  other,  for, 
no  matter  how  hard  they  tried  to  think  it  was 
all  right,  it  didn't  look  right.  Finally  Mrs. 
Dennison  she  spoke. 

"  'What's  your  name,  little  girl?'  says  she. 

"Then  the  child  looks  up  and  stops 
stroking  the  cat,  and  says  she  can't  find  her 
mother,  just  the  way  she  said  it  to  me. 
Then  Mrs.  Dennison  she  gave  such  a  gasp 
that  Mrs.  Bird  thought  she  was  going  to 
faint  away,  but  she  didn't.  'Well,  who  is 


The  Lost  Ghost  225 

your  mother  ?'  says  she.  But  the  child  just 
says  again  'I  can't  find  my  mother — I  can't 
find  my  mother.' 

"  'Where  do  you  live,  dear  ?'  says  Mrs.  Bird. 

"I  can't  find  my  mother,'  says  the  child. 

"Well,  that  was  the  way  it  was.  Nothing 
happened.  Those  two  women  stood  there 
hanging  onto  each  other,  and  the  child  stood 
in  front  of  them,  and  they  asked  her  ques 
tions,  and  everything  she  would  say  was: 
'I  can't  find  my  mother.' 

"Then  Mrs.  Bird  tried  to  catch  hold  of  the 
child,  for  she  thought  in  spite  of  what  she 
saw  that  perhaps  she  was  nervous  and  it 
was  a  real  child,  only  perhaps  not  quite 
right  in  its  head,  that  had  run  away  in  her 
little  nightgown  after  she  had  been  put  to 
bed. 

"She  tried  to  catch  the  child.  She  had  an 
idea  of  putting  a  shawl  around  it  and  going 
out — she  was  such  a  little  thing  she  could 
have  carried  her  easy  enough — and  trying  to 
find  out  to  which  of  the  neighbours  she 
belonged.  But  the  minute  she  moved  toward 
the  child  there  wasn't  any  child  there ;  there 
was  only  that  little  voice  seeming  to  come 


226          The  Wind  in  ike  Rose-bush 

from  nothing,  saying  'I  can't  find  my 
mother,'  and  presently  that  died  away. 

"Well,  that  same  thing  kept  happening,  or 
something  very  much  the  same.  Once  in 
awhile  Mrs.  Bird  would  be  washing  dishes, 
and  all  at  once  the  child  would  be  standing 
beside  her  with  the  dish-towel,  wiping  them. 
Of  course,  that  was  terrible.  Mrs.  Bird 
would  wash  the  dishes  all  over.  Sometimes 
she  didn't  tell  Mrs.  Dennison,  it  made  her  so 
nervous.  Sometimes  when  they  were  making 
cake  they  would  find  the  raisins  all  picked 
over,  and  sometimes  little  sticks  of  kindling- 
wood  would  be  found  laying  beside  the 
kitchen  stove.  They  never  knew  when 
they  would  come  across  that  child,  and 
always  she  kept  saying  over  and  over  that 
she  couldn't  find  her  mother.  They  never  tried 
talking  to  her,  except  once  in  awhile  Mrs. 
Bird  would  get  desperate  and  ask  her  some 
thing,  but  the  child  never  seemed  to  hear  it ; 
she  always  kept  right  on  saying  that  she 
couldn't  find  her  mother. 

"After  they  had  told  me  all  they  had  to 
tell  about  their  experience  with  the  child, 
they  told  me  about  the  house  and  the 


The  Lost  Ghost  227 

people  that  had  lived  there  before  they  did. 
It  seemed  something  dreadful  had  happened 
in  that  house.  And  the  land  agent  had 
never  let  on  to  them.  I  don't  think  they 
would  have  bought  it  if  he  had,  no  matter 
how  cheap  it  was,  for  even  if  folks  aren't  really 
afraid  of  anything,  they  don't  want  to  live 
in  houses  where  such  dreadful  things  have 
happened  that  you  keep  thinking  about 
them.  I  know  after  they  told  me  I  should 
never  have  stayed  there  another  night,  if  I 
hadn't  thought  so  much  of  them,  no  matter 
how  comfortable  I  was  made;  and  I  never 
was  nervous,  either.  But  I  stayed.  Of 
course,  it  didn't  happen  in  my  room.  If 
it  had  I  could  not  have  stayed." 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Emerson  in 
an  awed  voice. 

"It  was  an  awful  thing.  That  child  had 
lived  in  the  house  with  her  father  and  mother 
two  years  before.  They  had  come — or  the 
father  had — from  a  real  good  family.  He  had 
a  good  situation :  he  was  a  drummer  for  a  big 
leather  house  in  the  city,  and  they  lived  real 
pretty,  with  plenty  to  do  with.  But  the 
mother  was  a  real  wicked  woman.  She  was 


228          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

as  handsome  as  a  picture,  and  they  said  she 
came  from  good  sort  of  people  enough  in 
Boston,  but  she  was  bad  clean  through, 
though  she  was  real  pretty  spoken  and  most 
everybody  liked  her.  She  used  to  dress  out 
and  make  a  great  show,  and  she  never  seemed 
to  take  much  interest  in  the  child,  and  folks 
began  to  say  she  wasn't  treated  right. 

"The  woman  had  a  hard  time  keeping  a 
girl.  For  some  reason  one  wouldn't  stay. 
They  would  leave  and  then  talk  about  her 
awfully,  telling  all  kinds  of  things.  People 
didn't  believe  it  at  first ;  then  they  began  to. 
They  said  that  the  woman  made  that  little 
thing,  though  she  wasn't  much  over  five 
years  old,  and  small  and  babyish  for  her  age, 
do  most  of  the  work,  what  there  was  done; 
they  said  the  house  used  to  look  like  a  pig 
sty  when  she  didn't  have  help.  They  said 
the  little  thing  used  to  stand  on  a  chair  and 
wash  dishes,  and  they'd  seen  her  carrying  in 
sticks  of  wood  most  as  big  as  she  was  many  a 
time,  and  they'd  heard  her  mother  scolding 
her.  The  woman  was  a  fine  singer,  and  had 
a  voice  like  a  screech-owl  when  she  scolded. 

"The  father  was  away  most  of  the  time, 


The  Lost  Ghost  229 

and  when  that  happened  he  had  been  away 
out  West  for  some  weeks.  There  had  been  a 
married  man  hanging  about  the  mother  for 
some  time,  and  folks  had  talked  some;  but 
they  weren't  sure  there  was  anything  wrong, 
and  he  was  a  man  very  high  up,  with  money, 
so  they  kept  pretty  still  for  fear  he  would 
hear  of  it  and  make  trouble  for  them,  and  of 
course  nobody  was  sure,  though  folks  did 
say  afterward  that  the  father  of  the  child 
had  ought  to  have  been  told. 

"But  that  was  very  easy  to  say ;  it  wouldn't 
have  been  so  easy  to  find  anybody  who  would 
have  been  willing  to  tell  him  such  a  thing  as 
that,  especially  when  they  weren't  any  too 
sure.  He  set  his  eyes  by  his  wife,  too.  They 
said  all  he  seemed  to  think  of  was  to  earn 
money  to  buy  things  to  deck  her  out  in. 
And  he  about  worshiped  the  child,  too. 
They  said  he  was  a  real  nice  man.  The 
men  that  are  treated  so  bad  mostly  are  real 
nice  men.  I've  always  noticed  that. 

"Well,  one  morning  that  man  that  there 
had  been  whispers  about  was  missing.  He 
had  been  gone  quite  a  while,  though,  before 
they  really  knew  that  he  was  missing,  because 


230          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

he  had  gone  away  and  told  his  wife  that  he 
had  to  go  to  New  York  on  business  and 
might  be  gone  a  week,  and  not  to  worry  if 
he  didn't  get  home,  and  not  to  worry  if  he 
didn't  write,  because  he  should  be  thinking 
from  day  to  day  that  he  might  take  the 
next  train  home  and  there  would  be  no  use 
in  writing.  So  the  wife  waited,  and  she  tried 
not  to  worry  until  it  was  two  days  over  the 
week,  then  she  run  into  a  neighbour's  and 
fainted  dead  away  on  the  floor;  and  then 
they  made  inquiries  and  found  out  that  he 
had  skipped — with  some  money  that  didn't 
belong  to  him,  too. 

"Then  folks  began  to  ask  where  was  that 
woman,  and  they  found  out  by  comparing 
notes  that  nobody  had  seen  her  since  the  man 
went  away ;  but  three  or  four  women  remem 
bered  that  she  had  told  them  that  she  thought 
of  taking  the  child  and  going  to  Boston  to 
visit  her  folks,  so  when  they  hadn't  seen  her 
around,  and  the  house  shut,  they  jumped 
to  the  conclusion  that  was  where  she  was. 
They  were  the  neighbours  that  lived  right 
around  her,  but  they  didn't  have  much  to  do 
with  her,  and  she'd  gone  out  of  her  way  to 


The  Lost  Ghost  231 

tell  them  about  her  Boston  plan,  and  they 
didn't  make  much  reply  when  she  did. 

"Well,  there  was  this  house  shut  up,  and 
the  man  and  woman  missing  and  the  child. 
Then  all  of  a  sudden  one  of  the  women  that 
lived  the  nearest  remembered  something. 
She  remembered  that  she  had  waked  up  three 
nights  running,  thinking  she  heard  a  child 
crying  somewhere,  and  once  she  waked  up  her 
husband,  but  he  said  it  must  be  the  Bisbees' 
little  girl,  and  she  thought  it  must  be.  The 
child  wasn't  well  and  was  always  crying.  It 
used  to  have  colic  spells,  especially  at  night. 
So  she  didn't  think  any  more  about  it  until 
this  came  up,  then  all  of  a  sudden  she  did 
think  of  it.  She  told  what  she  had  heard, 
and  finally  folks  began  to  think  they  had 
better  enter  that  house  and  see  if  there  was 
anything  wrong. 

"Well,  they  did  enter  it,  and  they  found 
that  child  dead,  locked  in  one  of  the  rooms. 
(Mrs.  Dennison  and  Mrs.  Bird  never  used  that 
room ;  it  was  a  back  bedroom  on  the  second 
floor.) 

"Yes,  they  found  that  poor  child  there, 
starved  to  death,  and  frozen,  though  they 


232          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

weren't  sure  she  had  frozen  to  death,  for  she 
was  in  bed  with  clothes  enough  to  keep  her 
pretty  warm  when  she  was  alive.  But  she 
had  been  there  a  week,  and  she  was  nothing 
but  skin  and  bone.  It  looked  as  if  the  mother 
had  locked  her  into  the  house  when  she 
went  away,  and  told  her  not  to  make  any 
noise  for  fear  the  neighbours  would  hear  her 
and  find  out  that  she  herself  had  gone. 

"Mrs.  Dennison  said  she  couldn't  really 
believe  that  the  woman  had  meant  to  have 
her  own  child  starved  to  death.  Probably 
she  thought  the  little  thing  would  raise 
somebody,  or  folks  would  try  to  get  in  the 
house  and  find  her.  Well,  whatever  she 
thought,  there  the  child  was,  dead. 

"But  that  wasn't  all.  The  father  came 
home,  right  in  the  midst  of  it ;  the  child  was 
just  buried,  and  he  was  beside  himself.  And 
— he  went  on  the  track  of  his  wife,  and  he 
found  her,  and  he  shot  her  dead;  it  was  in 
all  the  papers  at  the  time;  then  he  disap 
peared.  Nothing  had  been  seen  of  him  since. 
Mrs.  Dennison  said  that  she  thought  he  had 
either  made  way  with  himself  or  got  out 
of  the  country,  nobody  knew,  but  they  did 


The  Lost  Ghost  233 

know  there  was  something  wrong  with  the 
house. 

'  'I  knew  folks  acted  queer  when  they 
asked  me  how  I  liked  it  when  we  first  came 
here,'  says  Mrs.  Dennison,  'but  I  never 
dreamed  why  till  we  saw  the  child  that 
night/  " 

"I  never  heard  anything  like  it  in  my 
life,"  said  Mrs.  Emerson,  staring  at  the  other 
woman  with  awestruck  eyes. 

"I  thought  you'd  say  so,"  said  Mrs. 
Meserve.  "You  don't  wonder  that  I  ain't 
disposed  to  speak  light  when  I  hear 
there  is  anything  queer  about  a  house,  do 
you?" 

"No,  I  don't,  after  that,"  Mrs.  Emerson 
said. 

"But  that  ain't  all,"  said  Mrs.  Meserve. 

"Did  you  see  it  again?"  Mrs.  Emerson 
asked. 

"Yes,  I  saw  it  a  number  of  times  before 
the  last  time.  It  was  lucky  I  wasn't  nervous, 
or  I  never  could  have  stayed  there,  much 
as  I  liked  the  place  and  much  as  I  thought 
of  those  two  women;  they  were  beautiful 
women,  and  no  mistake.  I  loved  those 


234          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

women.     I  hope  Mrs.   Dennison  will  come 
and  see  me  sometime. 

"Well,  I  stayed,  and  I  never  knew  when 
I'd  see  that  child.  I  got  so  I  was  very  care 
ful  to  bring  everything  of  mine  upstairs,  and 
not  leave  any  little  thing  in  my  room  that 
needed  doing,  for  fear  she  would  come 
lugging  up  my  coat  or  hat  or  gloves  or  I'd 
find  things  done  when  there' d  been  no  live 
being  in  the  room  to  do  them.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  I  dreaded  seeing  her;  and  worse 
than  the  seeing  her  was  the  hearing  her  say, 
'I  can't  find  my  mother.'  It  was  enough  to 
make  your  blood  run  cold.  I  never  heard  a 
living  child  cry  for  its  mother  that  was 
anything  so  pitiful  as  that  dead  one.  It 
was  enough  to  break  your  heart. 

"She  used  to  come  and  say  that  to  Mrs. 
Bird  oftener  than  to  any  one  else.  Once  I 
heard  Mrs.  Bird  say  she  wondered  if  it  was 
possible  that  the  poor  little  thing  couldn't 
really  find  her  mother  in  the  other  world,  she 
had  been  such  a  wicked  woman. 

"But  Mrs.  Dennison  told  her  she  didn't 
think  she  ought  to  speak  so  nor  even  think 
so,  and  Mrs.  Bird  said  she  shouldn't  wonder 


The  Lost  Ghost  235 

if  she  was  right.  Mrs.  Bird  was  always 
very  easy  to  put  in  the  wrong.  She  was  a 
good  woman,  and  one  that  couldn't  do  things 
enough  for  other  folks.  It  seemed  as  if  that 
was  what  she  lived  on.  I  don't  think  she  was 
ever  so  scared  by  that  poor  little  ghost,  as 
much  as  she  pitied  it,  and  she  was  'most 
heartbroken  because  she  couldn't  do  any 
thing  for  it,  as  she  could  have  done  for  a 
live  child. 

"  'It  seems  to  me  sometimes  as  if  I  should 
die  if  I  can't  get  that  awful  little  white  robe 
off  that  child  and  get  her  in  some  clothes  and 
feed  her  and  stop  her  looking  for  her  mother,' 
I  heard  her  say  once,  and  she  was  in  earnest. 
She  cried  when  she  said  it.  That  wasn't 
long  before  she  died. 

"Now  I  am  coming  to  the  strangest  part 
of  it  all.  Mrs.  Bird  died  very  sudden.  One 
morning — it  was  Saturday,  and  there  wasn't 
any  school — I  went  downstairs  to  breakfast, 
and  Mrs.  Bird  wasn't  there;  there  was 
nobody  but  Mrs.  Dennison.  She  was  pour 
ing  out  the  coffee  when  I  came  in.  'Why, 
where's  Mrs.  Bird  ?'  says  I. 

"  'Abby  ain't  feeling  very  well  this  morn- 


236          The  Wind  in  the  Rose-bush 

ing,'  says  she;  'there  isn't  much  the  matter, 
I  guess,  but  she  didn't  sleep  very  well,  and 
her  head  aches,  and  she's  sort  of  chilly,  and 
I  told  her  I  thought  she'd  better  stay  in  bed 
till  the  house  gets  warm.'  It  was  a  very  cold 
morning. 

'  'Maybe  she's  got  cold,'  says  I. 

'Yes,  I  guess  she  has,'  says  Mrs.  Denni- 
son.  'I  guess  she's  got  cold.  She'll  be  up 
before  long.  Abby  ain't  one  to  stay  in  bed 
a  minute  longer  than  she  can  help.' 

"Well,  we  went  on  eating  our  breakfast, 
and  all  at  once  a  shadow  flickered  across  one 
wall  of  the  room  and  over  the  ceiling  the  way 
a  shadow  will  sometimes  when  somebody 
passes  the  window  outside.  Mrs.  Dennison 
and  I  both  looked  up,  then  out  of  the 
window;  then  Mrs.  Dennison  she  gives  a 
scream. 

"  'Why,  Abby's  crazy  !'  says  she.  'There 
she  is  out  this  bitter  cold  morning,  and— 

and '      She  didn't  finish,  but  she  meant 

the  child.  For  we  were  both  looking  out,  and 
we  saw,  as  plain  as  we  ever  saw  anything  in 
our  lives,  Mrs.  Abby  Bird  walking  off  over 
the  white  snow-path  with  that  child  holding 


The  Lost  Ghost  237 

fast  to  her  hand,  nestling  close  to  her  as  if 
she  had  found  her  own  mother. 

"  'She's  dead,'  says  Mrs.  Dennison,  clutch 
ing  hold  of  me  hard.  'She's  dead;  my  sister 
is  dead !' 

"She  was.  We  hurried  upstairs  as  fast  as 
we  could  go,  and  she  was  dead  in  her  bed,  and 
smiling  as  if  she  was  dreaming,  and  one  arm 
and  hand  was  stretched  out  as  if  something 
had  hold  of  it ;  and  it  couldn't  be  straightened 
even  at  the  last — it  lay  out  over  her  casket 
at  the  funeral." 

"Was  the  child  ever  seen  again?"  asked 
Mrs.  Emerson  in  a  shaking  voice. 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Meserve;  "that  child 
was  never  seen  again  after  she  went  out  of 
the  yard  with  Mrs.  Bird." 


THE  END 


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APR  9   1988 

APR  1  5  1989 
JAN  1  8  2006 


N°  440779 

PS  17 12 
Freeman,  M.E.W.  W5 

The  wind  in  the  rose-    1903 
bush* 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


